And So It Began
by Jet44
Summary: When Neal was sent to a maximum security prison as a first-time white collar offender, Peter felt horrible about it, but there was nothing he could do. Now, four years later, he can help the endearing young convict. But is it worth the risk? Missing scenes fic about Peter's decision to accept Neal's request to be released into his custody. Gen.
1. Birthday Cards

**Notes:** This is probably more in character to, say, third season Neal and Peter than first. So shoot me, I love the bromance and caring aspect of the series more than I do the antagonistic angle. My Peter is more compassionate and my Neal is a better man than they both were at first. Fanfic is basically wish fulfillment, and I know this is a wish a lot of us have - so I'm putting that ahead of strict faithfulness to remaining in character to that time period.

It does fascinate me is that Peter did come for Neal, after dismissing the idea as laughable. I can't help but see caring in that act, because taking Neal on was as much of a risk to Peter's career as it was a potential asset. There was trust and affection on Neal's part from the very beginning too, despite the fact that he was using Peter to accomplish his goals. At the end of season one he was walking away from everyone without remorse...but it was trying to say goodbye to Peter at the airstrip that brought tears to Neal's eyes. And Peter knew it.

####

**WARNINGS?** Not a lot. But in case of triggers or the work being too mature for some readers, I do acknowledge the concept that Neal was at risk of being sexually assaulted, and of committing suicide. There may be references to physical assault, solitary confinement, childhood abuse and other unpleasantness. None of it is graphic or "on-screen, though. This is a story of the beginning of a friendship, not a "Neal being in a hell prison, condemned there by an unfeeling Peter Burke who thought he deserved to be in misery" story.

Oh - and this is not presented in an entirely linear fashion.

**PETER**

Peter buried his head in his hands. He'd caught Neal Caffrey by exploiting the woman he loved, eviscerated his defense at the trial, and even testified against him in front of the parole board.

Neal sent him birthday cards. Not mocking, sadistic, "I know where you live and work" cards, but the real thing.

Neal was one of a kind. Leading him on one of the longest, most exhaustive pursuits - no, the most exhaustive pursuit ever. Breaking out of prison. Getting re-captured by the exact same agent. And almost immediately thereafter, appealing to said agent to let him out again.

_Nice job catching me. Now cut me loose like an undersized trout, and we can do it all over again?_ He was probably one of the first to attempt prison-break-by-FBI agent.

_Nice try, Neal._

Actually a little beneath Neal's usual standards, but the guy didn't have a lot to work with.

_I know maximum-security prison can't hold me, but you know what would? Something I can cut off with a pair of scissors!_

Maybe if this were the high-tech middle ages and the thing was made of un-cuttable steel and welded on. At which point Neal would probably go to an inevitable master alchemist friend and procure a potion to melt it off. So, not even in fantasyland would this fly.

Poor kid.

Peter really had felt for him, walking out and leaving him in that place for the next four years. He'd squeezed his shoulder and wished he could do more. Neal was a sweet guy in many ways. He didn't know what procedures the prison had in place to punish and secure escapees, but he was sure they weren't pleasant.

Maybe he could do what he'd mockingly suggested to Neal. Start writing him about cases. Being asked for advice by the FBI would shoot his ego straight for the moon, though, and the entire criminal population would become privy to the FBI's investigations.

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Neal sat at the table in a state of frozen shock from all the emotional inputs he was getting. Peter had turned him down flat. The fantasy was over, and as expected as it was, it still hurt.

And then Peter had to go and do one of those things that made him so long to be the FBI agent's friend. He could still feel that firm, caring grip on his shoulder even though Peter was long gone, even though he'd done it too fast in passing for him to react.

And his admin hearing on the escape was tomorrow. He was going into solitary; the only question was how long he'd spend in there. There was still a way to get thrown in prison within prison, and he was dreading it. Not to mention that as hard as it might be to look for Kate from prison, it would be impossible for however long he was locked in one of those dreadful concrete boxes.

He could still feel that squeeze on his shoulder Peter had given him on the way out, and the longing, and the hurt. Not unlike when Peter had arrested him the first time.

Neal had built the FBI agent up in his head during the chase. Wickedly intelligent, ethical, playful, he knew exactly who he was and what he was doing in life. There was something incredibly appealing in his balance of confident control and humanity.

He'd been dreading the arrest. Dreading Peter coming off that pedestal, slamming him down across the hood of a car, playing dirty tricks in interrogation, and becoming not a worthy and refined foe but just another cop.

But the pedestal just took on an added shine. Neal, looking forward to the best battle of wits ever invented, had instead found himself pitifully scared. Worse, he hadn't been able to hide it. And Peter had responded with intuitive compassion, genuinely comforting him, playing with him, and most assuredly not slamming him down on car hoods.

Peter had walked him into the detention center with a reassuring hand on his back, and melted any reserve Neal might have had left by handing him his home number on a business card.

And then he left Neal behind in the detention center, and Neal found himself wrenched not just because he was under arrest or in jail, but because Peter was gone.

"We'd have made a hell of a team," he said softly to the ghost of Peter Burke that lingered in the room. Then he stood up, braced himself, and walked back into reality.

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

Peter closed the door and his eyes. He needed to be alone to face this.

_I caught this guy. I gloated. It was one of the highlights of my career, catching Neal Caffrey_.

Not just because of the accomplishment. He'd come to truly like Neal, and dread getting a call that his body had been dredged out of a river.

Peter had hated delivering him to the detention center, but done it with an enormous sense of relief and compassion. Neal might not be happy, but he was relatively safe now.

Peter was integral to the prosecution and conviction. It'd been a strange experience. He was professionally gleeful, and personally glad that he'd gotten there before some mob enforcer or hit man. He had no reservations about sending Caffrey to prison.

But their eyes had met many times during the trial, and each time Peter felt affection for the guy, smug and arrogant and unrepentant as he was. For his part, Neal had never once looked at him with hate or blame or hurt, and often with a fond little smile.

It had never once occurred to him that Neal would wind up anywhere but a safe, humane, relatively comfortable medium-security Federal facility. He'd developed a genuine desire to help the endearing, playful young criminal mastermind, and that would have been the place and the opportunity to try. Instead, the judge hit him over the head with a two-by-four.

When the sentence came down, it felt like he'd knifed Caffrey in the back. Peter had seen the true panic in Neal's eyes when a punitive Federal judge did the unthinkable and sentenced a nonviolent while-collar first-time offender to the harshest penitentiary in the state.

Peter had been tempted to walk up to the judge and ask what the hell he was thinking. Sure, Caffrey was guilty of enough to qualify for about ten life sentences. But you sentenced on what was proven, not what you thought someone might have done.

#####

When the judge started to read the actual sentence, Peter looked away. There was nobody in the courtroom to whom this was as important as it was to Caffrey. Nobody who was having his future read to him. The man could have whatever privacy he needed.  
>Then he froze. <em>What the hell?<em>

"Your scoring as a psychopath on the PLC-R gives me no hesitation in treating you as a high-risk offender, and it is my opinion that you should be categorized as one. In the Federal system you would be classified according to your crimes and behavior in custody. As we've seen by the fact that you managed to manipulate even officers at the Federal detention facility into falling for your schtick, this will be far too lenient. On this basis I sentence you directly to a maximum security state facility, Sing Sing Penitentiary, for a period of four years."

Sing Sing State Penitentiary? Neal was a _Federal_ prisoner, convicted of Federal crimes. Sing Sing was a _state_ prison. A _maximum security_ state prison. A first-time offender on a Federal forgery conviction would normally land in minimum security. Caffrey, Peter had suspected, would wind up in a medium-security facility due to escape risks.

Peter closed his eyes._ Oh, shit, Caffrey, I'm sorry._

When he opened them again, Caffrey was being shackled by the bailiff. His face was a tightly controlled blank, but when his and Peter's eyes met, there was appeal in them.

Wrenched with guilt, Peter had followed Caffrey back to the holding cell, ready to be loathed and screamed at.

Instead, Peter wound up holding and reassuring a hyperventilating young man who practically crawled into his arms.

####

Peter had to fight his way through bored and uncooperative court officials to get to Neal, and saw the bailiff's eyes flash in hate at the mention of the name Caffrey. "He causing problems?" asked Peter.

"No. Except by, you know, existing."

Peter didn't reply, just followed him to the cell where Neal was, entered with the folding chair the bailiff pointed to when the guy unlocked it, and tried not to startle when the metal door slammed shut behind him. _Wow_.

Neal was hyperventilating, and trembling. Someone, presumably the bailiff, had locked him in without removing the restraints.

"Hey, kiddo." Peter didn't like seeing him like this. The Neal Caffrey he'd chased didn't do terrified. If he had, maybe some vestigial shred of common sense would have stopped him long before this day.

"H - hey."

Peter put the folding chair down facing Caffrey, sat down, and unlocked the handcuffs around his wrists. Neal wrapped his arms around Peter's back, clinging to him.

Dozens, if not hundreds, of cases where he'd stood by and watched hardened, remorseless criminals walk with sentences that made a mockery of their victims. Plea bargains that let monsters walk.

And now, a playful, non-violent guy was getting thrown by the scruff of his neck into the most infamous prison in the state.

He took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing but help Caffrey cope, and that felt utterly awful. Relaxing very slightly, the shaking young man pressed his forehead against Peter's collarbone and closed his eyes. And that made Peter almost want to cry himself.

He knew it wasn't his fault. It was the judge's. It was Neal's. It was Neal's lawyer's. The shocking thing was that _Neal_ seemed to recognize it wasn't Peter's fault.

The lack of a kicking and screaming, "you dragged me into this, you did this to me" fit said a lot about this guy. He actually seemed to recognize that Peter cared, that he was down here in this cell to provide compassion and support. And that was one of the most endearing things in the world.

"For what it's worth, I think that was a petty and malicious sentence you don't deserve."

"Th-anks."

"Are you calm enough to understand what I'm saying?" The kid's breath was still coming in hysterical gasps, but he nodded.

"Okay. Sing Sing is a no-nonsense maximum security prison and that's scary as hell. It's metal-barred cellblocks and murderers, and I cannot fucking believe that idiot sent you there. But it's no longer the facility everyone's heard horror stories about. This isn't the Sing Sing of thirty years ago. They don't abuse prisoners."

Neal was crying now, struggling to cope. "Four years. They - just - said they want me in misery for four years. Four years before I get to drive a car again, or go swimming, or see Kate, or even even see you, or Mozzie. I - I at the detention center I don't have to live in a cell. They put me in one, for the first two days I was there, and I just about went insane. I was so - so grateful when they let me out. I can't survive four years in one - Peter, I'm going to die in there."

He was hyperventilating, having a panic attack, feeling like he really was going to die.

"You aren't going to die," said Peter gently. "And you aren't going to be so unhappy that you want to. You will see Kate, they'll let her visit you, and Mozzie too. You aren't going to be on a different planet, you're going to be in New York. And if you want me to get into a car and come see you and remind you of that, I will."

He didn't know how he of all people had made it onto Neal's list of people he couldn't bear to go for four years without seeing, but it was simple enough to refute that one fear.

"I don't understand rules, Peter. People I understand. Not rules. I am going to break them, and I am going to get put in solitary, or beat up, or whatever they do there to guys who don't realize locks on cell doors weren't put there to be picked in your spare time."

"That happen in the detention center?" asked Peter.

Neal shook his head. "No, because they were kind and knew I wasn't _trying_ to be an asshole."

"Or a psychopath?" asked Peter dryly.

Neal fixed him with an odd sort of pleading look. It wasn't "save me," or "help me get out of this." It was "please believe me."

"I'm. Not. A psychopath."

"I believe you," said Peter. "But you present a carefully crafted image to the world, and that image is one that just screwed you. Try showing Neal Caffrey a little more often, maybe you won't get read as a psychopath."

Caffrey's breathing was starting to steady, and he rested his drooping forehead on Peter's upper arm. He was still trembling, but he was listening.

"I was hoping you'd wind up in one of these slick, pretty places that looks like a college campus and houses you in a dorm," said Peter. "I never saw you having to deal with barred cells and guard towers and murderers. But no matter how scary it looks and sounds, it's not a house of horrors."

"Promise?" asked Neal quietly.

They were sitting in a tiny metal-barred cell with a steel bench in the basement of the courthouse. It was ugly, unpleasant, and the bailiff had thrown Neal in there in handcuffs and a belly chain and leg irons. It was complete overkill, and Peter guessed that there had been zero compassion in it for this scared, cooperative person who'd just gotten some of the worst news of his life.

"I promise. If you can handle this cell we're sitting in right now, you can handle Sing Sing. This place is pretty damn dismal."

"I was really hoping not to have to go the getting beat up and raped route," said Caffrey miserably.

Peter hugged him impulsively, and the young con artist melted into his arms, crying.

"Oh, kiddo." Peter patted him on the back. "That's not gonna happen. You're like a walking copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People."

He hugged Caffrey a little tighter. "And you have an FBI agent on your side. If you ever feel like you're in physical danger, or you're being mistreated, you call me. You have an absolute right to be safe in prison. Don't let anyone in the world threaten you or scare you out of that, or tell you you'll just wind up in a segregation unit. I'll have you yanked out of there and into Federal protection before you can blink."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. And I'll be very surprised if I ever get that call. But if I do, I will believe you and I will help you."

"Thank you. Thank you." There was a moment of silence. "_Why_ do I have an FBI agent on my side?"

"For the same reason you're going to be fine in prison. You're a friendly, endearing, smart, cooperative guy who makes friends, not enemies. You make people want to protect you, not hurt you."

"Except for my judge." Neal sounded wounded, not angry. "Except for everyone who testified against me at this trial. I wasn't expecting that to hurt, but it did, sitting there while everyone from you to Sara Ellis - it was like listening in on a conversation where you find out everyone hates you, only I was sitting right there and they knew it."

A con man who cared what people really thought of him, after the crime?

Peter understood the lost look. Neal Caffrey had just met something he couldn't talk, charm, bribe, or fight his way out of. It was the talking and the charm that had landed him here.

"Yeah...well, society and the people in it really don't like criminals. You will have to face that reality. That contempt and dislike is probably going to be the most punishing part of this for you. You aren't going to be beaten, but you are going to be viewed as a felon who's worth a whole hell of a lot less as a human being than the rest of the world. You're not gonna be a rock star any more. I suggest you grit your teeth and take it and work to earn the respect of everyone you meet from the ground up."

"What about you?" Caffrey sounded small and shaky.

"Look at me," said Peter. Caffrey didn't respond. "Neal, look at me," he ordered.

The face that looked up at him almost broke his heart. Confident Neal Caffrey looked small and heartbroken, with tears in his eyes, and a transparent effort to appear brave not doing anything to keep him from looking about seventeen years old. The idea of prison had terrified him, but the concept that people were going to look down on him had crushed him.

"You already did earn my respect," said Peter firmly. "When you shook my hand in that storage facility. When you went through every second of this without bitterness or hate or violence. I respect you and like you despite the crimes you've committed, and that's not common."

Neal looked like Peter had just handed him the world. The tears in his eyes were emotion, not grief or fear any longer. "I'll try not to let you down."

"You're a rather astonishing young man," said Peter softly. He'd never, ever had a suspect react to him this way. "I'm absolutely certain you'll be able to earn the respect and trust of the people you deal with in prison. Just don't expect it to be easy or automatic."

"Challenge accepted," said Neal with a faint twinkle of the playful confidence in his nature starting to show through again.

"That guy from the detention center showing up to your sentencing to tell the judge how awesome you were? That's not a thing they do. He did that on his own time."

"Wow." He put his head down against Peter's chest again. "They were nice to me. I think I'm going to end up really missing that place."

Peter patted him on the back. "I think if people were nice to you at the detention center, they will be at Sing Sing too."

He tried to ignore the bailiff's cruelty, and the fact that he trusted the Federal detention center. They'd never mistreated one of his suspects or let them get hurt. All he knew about Sing Sing was that it was a crowded, underfunded state prison full of violent criminals. It was a warehouse, not a rehabilitation facility. "If it's not okay, call me. No matter what. I will come for you. I will protect you. I will pull you out of there. You call me. You don't let anyone or anything or any threat or shame keep you from contacting me. Trust me. Call me."

Neal nodded.

"Promise," said Peter.

"I promise," said Neal.

"Promise again."

"I swear."

"Repeat it back to me," Peter ordered. He wasn't sure the traumatized Caffrey was really listening, and he wasn't going to be able to sleep at night if he thought there was even a chance this admittedly beautiful, small, and nonviolent young man was going to be walking into a bad prison movie.

"I will call you if I'm ever in trouble, no matter what."

"And?"

"And you'll protect me and get me out and not let me get thrown in solitary."

"Right," said Peter. "I mean every word, and I can back it up. I can't live with the idea you might not call me if you need help."

"I will." Neal hesitated. "Thank you, Peter."

Peter put a hand under his chin and pushed it up, gently forcing Neal to meet his eyes. "I know this is going to be a hard four years, and I'm not going to lie and say I don't think you deserve it. But you don't deserve to be in fear, or pain, or subject to violence. You need to know that, absolutely. You need to know that you'll be okay, because crime is crime and I'm just as determined to keep you safe as I was to catch you."

Neal looked shattered, but his gaze and his breathing were steady now. He finally believed he was going to be all right, that he wasn't being sent off to die in hell. "You hang in there, Neal Caffrey."

"I will," said Neal again. He meant it this time.


	2. Postcards

**PETER**

The door eased open, and El came in.

"You look upset," said El, concerned. "Satchmo's sitting outside the door with his nose against the crack, being a very good boy not whining 'cause he's worried about you."

"It's nothing," said Peter.

"No, it's not. Tell me."

"You'll think I'm silly."

"Try me," challenged El, sitting down beside him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Peter leaned softly against her side. "Neal Caffrey got sentenced today. Four years in Sing Sing, and it devastated him. I had this kid crying and hyperventilating in my arms, and - it was hard. He doesn't belong there."

"Oh, honey. That's sad. Isn't there anything you can do?"

Peter shook his head. "He's terrified, and he's - right now he's in a prison transport bus chained up hand and foot to get processed into a place with barred cellblocks and murderers. I just - feel awful. It's a serious prison. It's an insane place to send him. He's - he was so endearing and cooperative when I arrested him, and I though he'd be sent someplace designed for nonviolent inmates, someplace _not_ one of the scariest-"

"Hon. Hon." She kissed him on the cheek. "Slow down. I'm going to listen to you, you don't have to get it out in one breath."

Peter forced himself to stop for a moment. The truth was, he felt like if he didn't get this all out now, it was going to be too hard. The shame would take over and silence him, and this would be his to bear alone for four years.

"He's going to _terrified_, El. He's terrified right now, and it's only going to get worse until they slam him in a cell for the first time and he curls up in a ball and tries to hide that he's crying."

"That's pretty vivid," said El.

"I was holding him in my arms an hour ago. He was so scared he practically tried to crawl into my lap. I know what he's feeling, and it's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better."

"Is that unusual? I'd imagine most people are pretty scared, going to prison. You don't worry this much about your other suspects."

Peter winced. "My other suspects don't get sent to a maximum security state prison for nonviolent white collar crimes. My other suspects don't greet me as a friend and cling to me for comfort. They don't call me from overseas and stage shark maulings and then send me cookies and birthday cards."

"Aww." He thought for a moment El was mocking him, until she pulled his head around to face her. "I love you. You are a wonderful, wonderful man, and I _love_ you."

Satchmo got into the action too, jumping up on the bed and nuzzling his elbow with a questioning lick. He held El tight with one arm and the young Lab with the other.

"A guy from the detention center spoke at the sentencing hearing, on his behalf. He was such a good guy in there, they started using him to help other inmates who were scared or having a hard time coping. A bunch of girls came in out of a human trafficking sting, illegal and scared to death and nobody on the staff spoke Mandarin, but Neal did. They brought him in, and he reassured them and translated medical histories and family contacts. This was pure vindictiveness on the part of the judge."

"Is he going to be okay?"

Peter nodded. "He knows to call me if not. But that's not going to stop a cell door sliding shut behind him from being the most terrifying sound he's heard in his life. I'm - kinda heartsick thinking about it."

"Hon?"

"What?"

"Do something. Send him an insane coded message, or a care package or something. Just - to let him know he exists in your mind. That'd probably mean a lot to him."

Peter remembered the look Neal had given him when he took the business card at the detention center. Yes. It _would_ mean a lot to him.

"Thanks, hon. I will."

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Neal sat down on the bunk, clutching the envelope that had been opened and then resealed by security before finally being delivered to him. The address was handwritten, printed with care. It was the first time seeing his address as Sing Sing Penitentiary, and that made him feel a little queasy. If this was his official mailing address, he really was a prisoner. This wasn't a con or a lark, it was reality.

He ran his thumb lightly across the name on the return address. Peter Burke.

_Hi, Peter._

The return address was that of the FBI building, not Peter's home. Smart, if you were an agent sending a letter into a prison.

He was reluctant to open it. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the agent to show a cruel streak at the worst possible time. But what brutality Peter seemed to have was brutal honesty. He told Neal, up front and clearly, that he was an FBI agent, that he was sending Neal to jail and it was deserved. But his compassion seemed just as honest. More so, for the fact that he wasn't using it to mask reality.

He clenched his jaw and pulled out the letter.

_Neal,_

_I know your world is a pretty awful place to be right now. I need you to know I meant everything I said to you. You will make it. You will be free again, and you will be happy again._

_I just bought 365 postcards, because I've been told the first year is the hardest to get through. I'll be mailing one every day, and I'll think about you and wish you well when I do. I may or may not try to feign my death by shark mauling or send you elaborate clues._

_You hang in there, be good, and call me any time you need to hear the unfriendly and judgmental voice of the guy who sent you into that miserable place._

_Your frienemy,_  
><em>Peter<em>

Neal felt the tears forming and didn't fight them. He'd cried more this week than in his entire life. But this was different. This was nice. This was - unspeakably moving. He was fairly certain FBI agents didn't make a practice of writing the people they arrested every day in prison to keep their spirits up.

"Lights out, Caffrey."

Neal startled, horrified and hoping the guard standing outside hadn't seen his tears. "Okay - sorry."

The guard's face softened. "It's okay to cry, kiddo. Just about everyone does at first."

Neal gave him a grateful glance, and stood and clicked off the light.

"Good night, Caffrey. Hang in there, it'll get better."

"Thank you," said Neal with the utmost sincerity. One of the few good surprises in this place was that it held people who showed kindness to supposed psychopaths. "Good night."

The guard walked on, checking the cells and putting the place to bed. Neal could hear him exchanging quiet words with other inmates. It was already getting better.

Neal set Peter's letter on the shelf and peeled the blankets back, then retrieved it. He slipped it under his pillow, crawled under the covers, and rested his hand on the letter. His eyes were leaking a bit, but for the first time since his arrival, he slipped easily into a sound sleep, at peace.


	3. Cookies from a Psychopath

Peter had sent Caffrey to maximum-security prison. And Caffrey sent him birthday cards. Damn it.

He hadn't helped the guy by arresting him, he'd dispatched him to hell. Okay, maybe that was hyperbolic. But he did feel a responsibility for Caffrey's welfare, and had failed that responsibility. He'd never had quite gotten over the guilt on that score.

He might have delivered Caffrey into that unknowingly once. But this time, he'd known exactly what he was doing to a surrendering Neal Caffrey who looked him in the eyes while he was being cuffed.

Another four years in a harsh prison didn't seem like justice for that quiet, tired, still pleasant young man he'd found heartbroken in a deserted apartment. It seemed like smashing him over the head when he was down and beaten.

This time, there was something he could do. He could pick up the phone and start making calls and probably, if he really wanted to, get Neal out of prison. If he was willing to adopt a felon. Caffrey tugged at his heart too much for him to have any illusions about that. If Caffrey was put into his custody, he'd become a part of his life, and his responsibility.

_"You can get me out of here!"_

Caffrey'd said that with such a thrilled expression, one that said he was absolutely certain Peter would want to get him out if only the opportunity presented itself. In those words, Peter recognized his own training in interrogation and negotiation. You presented what you wanted with the attitude that of course, your suspect was secretly dying to comply.

_You can do the right thing! I know you're a good guy who's just been misunderstood, and you have the courage to help me make things right!_

It made Peter want to slap Caffrey, for thinking he was dumb enough to fall for it. But he was also getting an uneasy instinctive tickle of guilt telling him that as much as the tactic might have been calculated, that bright-eyed affection verging on adoration was sincere. That Caffrey really had thought Peter would want to get him out, and could have been crushed to discover otherwise.

A behavioral analyst had once told him Caffrey was a psychopath, and that his pathological need for attention was going to drive him to do a lot worse than forge bonds and send cookies and champagne to the agent chasing him. Caffrey, with his calculated charm and ruthless ability to manipulate was a serial killer in the making, and Peter's family was a likely target given that the man was already stalking him.

Peter didn't have the heart to tell her than he'd eaten the cookies, and they were delicious. Of course he considered that they could have been adulterated - and immediately rejected it. There was just nothing malicious about Neal.

But he did talk to El, and tell her what the BAU agent had said. He told her about the crimes, and showed her all of Neal's correspondence.

She read it with a growing smile. "Honey, he thinks you're cool. He's trying to impress you."

Peter snorted. "Uh - me? Cool? I don't think so. James Bonds is not an inaccurate nickname for the guy. Last time I was cool was when I played baseball, and even then it was to five really bored guys in a sports bar."

El slapped at him. "Okay, maybe you're a total, complete and utter dork. But _I_ think you're cool, and Neal does too."

"So he's trying to impress me, an FBI agent trying to catch him, while pissing me off by breaking as many laws as he can as flamboyantly as humanly possible?"

"I had to write you a message in six-inch lettering to get you to ask me out. You may be a brilliant FBI agent, but you're not very good at seeing when people are throwing themselves at you."

Peter frowned. "Uh - how exactly do you mean that? Ah - Neal is - straight, you know that, right?"

"I don't think he wants to take your clothes off, idiot. I think he admires you. When you do catch him, play nice. It'll crush him if you're mean to him."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. He wants to be your friend."

* * *

><p>Peter drove to the prison and started through all the official hoops and channels to see Caffrey. Just to talk, to feel him out, maybe ask him a few questions.<p>

A half an hour later, he hung up the phone in the lobby, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. Neal had been the subject of an administrative hearing, and was in disciplinary solitary confinement. He wasn't allowed visitors, even FBI agents.

Yeah. He'd broken out, impersonated a CO, and racked up charges on the warden's credit card. Of course they were going to punish him.

But once again, he'd looked a fundamentally gentle person in the eyes, seen surrender and trust, returned it with affection, and sent him into misery.

The fact that Neal had broken out with a mere three months to go proved that prison had done nothing to reform him or curb his reckless, impulsive nature. But it did hurt him, and crush something of that spark in his eyes. That was all solitary was going to do. Hurt him. It was a lesson he was never going to learn through punishment.

The only things left to try were to reach him through friendship and intelligence, up on his level. To show him, patiently and firmly, a different way to do things. To give him a wall to run into when he screwed up, not a brutal beating.

A uniformed corrections officer entered the room. "Peter Burke?"

Peter stood. "Yes. Thanks for seeing me."

The guard, a burly black fellow with a buzz cut, shrugged with an agreeable smile. "I'm a sucker for Caffrey. Pete Larson, I'm a Sergeant in his housing unit."

They shook hands. "I really can't see him?" asked Peter.

"Not unless it's officially vital to a case or something. You're Fed, you throw your weight around enough you could prob'ly do it, but..."

Peter's face twisted. It felt ugly. Neal Caffrey's being punished, so he can't see you. Unjust, no. But...

A much less reserved voice from Larson took him by surprise. "You care about him."

"I - guess I do," said Peter.

"So do we. A lot of us. That face you just made could have been mine."

"Is he okay?" asked Peter, reassured not for the first time by the compassion so many of these guys displayed.

It was Larson's turn to have his face twist in discomfort. "No," he said bluntly. "He's fucking miserable. He's in there for three weeks, which isn't long considering what he did. But you're talking about a sweet, social guy who gets shook up by a few days in that hellhole."

So much for that sick feeling going away.

"Burke..." there was some hesitation on Larson's part, but he forged ahead. "Come see him after he gets out. Be a nice thing to do for 'im."

Peter hesitated too. He wasn't actually sure Caffrey would want him to visit, especially not out of sympathy after a trying punishment. He didn't want to humiliate Neal by showing up when his guard was down, not when the man who so valued his slick image had already gone through that breakdown in a courthouse basement cell in front of Peter.

"Tell you what," said Peter. "When he gets out, tell him I said hi, and feel out if he wants to see me."

"I can do that." Larson eyed him for a minute, then waved them over to a table and sat. "What is it you're not talking to me about?"

Peter eyed him right back. "Will anything I say or ask you possibly blow back on Caffrey?"

Larson gave him a small, amused smile. "No, suspicious FBI agent." Larson clearly liked him for worrying about it.

"I'm - halfheartedly - considering a request he made to be let out on a tracking anklet so he can serve as a consultant to the FBI. To me."

"Jesus Christ, are you fucking insane?" Larson stared at him, and burst out laughing. "Man walked out of a maximum security prison like he was popping out for groceries. Actually leaving his cell door locked or staying in handcuffs are condescending little acts of courtesy for him. You know, fucking steel locks? You want to take him out to the middle of Times Square with a piece of plastic and a pair of scissors?"

Peter looked down at the rickety, chipped wood-grain plastic desk. "That was pretty much my reaction to his suggestion."

Larson stood abruptly. "Coffee?"

"Sure," said Peter, watching the door with his pride stinging as the Sergeant walked out. He probably was indulging in every possible form of wishful thinking, if the first person in law enforcement he confided in laughed in his face.

Larson entered with two Styrofoam cups of coffee, setting one down in front of Peter. He was distracted, and some of the coffee spilled onto Peter's hand. Good thing it was lukewarm at best.

Larson sat heavily. "Look - I'm an idealist. I believe in reform, and that seeing the best in people brings out the best in them. When one of my guys gets released, it's a happy day for me if I think they're gonna be able to make a go of it. It's one of the few things that makes this job worth it."

He fiddled with the stir straw from his coffee cup. "Other guys, I'm just incredibly sad. 'Cause they're gonna go hurt someone who never asked to be a victim. Then they're gonna be back in here with no future. I open the door and know I've failed society and I've failed my inmate."

Larson searched Peter's face for a long time. Finally decided to trust him. "Neal Caffrey's one of those who're gonna make me sad. I like him. I genuinely care about him, I even consider him something of a friend. But I don't think he's reformed, at all, and I doubt he will be in four more years."

He looked down. "I'm gonna hurt for him when he comes back in here doing twenty to life. He's well adjusted to life in here. He finds joy and things to live for. He's affectionate, he likes most of the other inmates and even the staff. But bein' here also hurts him, a lot. I'd really, really like to see him get a shot at real life. It's just that he lives and breathes cons and manipulation and has no remorse whatsoever."

"You think he's a psychopath?" asked Peter. He knew Neal wasn't; had decided that a long time ago. He just wanted to suss out how savvy Larson was.

"No. Absolutely not. He has no remorse about being a criminal. But he sincerely likes and cares about people. He does a lotta shit that's calculated as hell, but he also can be compassionate and supportive without an agenda."

Peter smiled. Yeah, that was about right. "If anything could reform him, what would it be?"

"All I can tell you is what doesn't work. Punishing him like they are now doesn't. It hurts him, he's a pretty sensitive guy. But it doesn't stop him for one second the next time around. You can yell at him, take away privileges, stick him in lockdown, you name it, and he just gives you this sad little look and deals with it. Trying to talk him into your point of view doesn't, he just thinks you're a moron for trying."

Peter frowned, and sipped at the coffee. It was bitter, cold, and tasted the way this room smelled. Disinfected and forgotten. "I came here after he broke out. Got the impression he was more or less a model prisoner."

"Well, we were afraid you'd shoot him," said Larson bluntly. "But he is, sort of. He's one of the good guys. Polite, cooperative, smart, solves his problems without violence. Inmates like him, we like him. That's rare. Thing is - he's smart, and he's self-absorbed. He's not a good prisoner because he wants to be a good person, it's 'cause it's what makes his life the most pleasant. I got guys who refuse orders an' attack guards outta pride, outta proving they won't be broken. Caffrey thinks those guys are idiots."

"But you still sound like you care about him," Peter observed.

"Hey. A third of our inmates are murderers," said Larson, shrugging his massive shoulders. "This isn't a pretty place. Caffrey's made a decent life and good friends here, he's kept inmates from killing themselves, he's kept a lot of us sane by reminding us that inmates can actually be human and care and feel for us and not be using that as a smokescreen to take us out. It takes an incredibly strong man to stay nonviolent and friendly and cheerful in here. An' I'm not just talking inmates."

"Takes a strong man to stomach this coffee," said Peter, finishing it.

"Want more?" asked Larson.

"Yes, please," said Peter, passing him the cup.

"You sure he'd skip on an anklet?" asked Peter when Larson returned.

There was a long silence. "He's not gonna stick around just because of one, that's for sure. But he's got a capacity to be passionate about things, and he likes people, likes to please. Give him what he wants out of the deal, he might, I guess. You just gotta know he's fearless, like one of those mini yappy dogs that'll run right up to a Rottweiler and bite its ear. And he doesn't come when he's called, even if you put a shock collar on him. But he can be honorable and caring. Most of the guys here prey on the weak, he preys on the strong and protects the weak. He's got a different psychology, that's for sure."

Peter pondered that. "I'm not sure if you're saying there's a chance for 'im, or just that you wish there were."

Larson took a long time to examine Peter and consider his answer. "There's no hope on his own. But if a smart guy that Caffrey already respects and trusts put his heart and soul into teaching him a different way to look at things, there's a chance four years'd be long enough for it to take. Most don't have the dedication and patience to do that for a troubled teenager, let alone an adult. If you do, the best I can say is if people are either good or evil, Caffrey's good."

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, Peter was at work when he got the call from Larson. "We talked about you maybe coming to see Caffrey when he got out of solitary?"<p>

"Yeah?"

"He - could use support right now. He's not himself."

"How so?" asked Peter, worried and fascinated. Caffrey was really something, if a prison guard was calling up FBI agents to ask them to provide moral support to an escapee.

"I'd tell the guy I'll let him go steal something out of the admin office, if I thought it'd cheer him up. He's not being cheeky or playful," said Larson. "I'm kinda worried all this mighta been too much for him at once."

"You bring up the idea of me coming?" asked Peter.

"Whole face lit up," said Larson.

"I could come after work," said Peter.

"See you then."


	4. Stay?

"Come on back," said Larson, greeting him with a friendly handshake. "We just locked the place down for the evening, he'll be in his cell."

Peter looked away, his lips twisted in discomfort. He didn't really want to. Didn't want to humiliate him, or - "Won't he get into trouble for talking to an FBI agent?"

"He's not a snitch and everyone knows it. The inmates trust him, and nobody's gonna hurt him. If you're still thinking about doing this, you need to see the reality of where and who he is right now. You ever been locked in a cell before?"

"Uh...no." Peter instantly remembered about a dozen times he had been, including that miserable little basement cage with Caffrey, and corrected himself. "Not in a major prison."

"Come on."

"You gonna lock me in with Caffrey?" Peter was a little dumbfounded.

"He won't hurt you," said Larson.

"I know that!" snapped Peter. "But what the hell...by the way, I've been in his cell. After he escaped."

"Not the same. You're an empathetic guy. Let yourself be locked in with him, you'll figure out more'n I could ever tell you."

"Okay," said Peter, a bit reluctantly. It felt like a stunt, and not a very nice one, for Neal or for him.

Neal was lying down, reading a book. His eyes widened in shock when he saw Peter, and he jumped to his feet. "Peter!"

The Sergeant locked the door behind him, an almost unbearably noisy sound of metal against metal, and walked away.

Caffrey didn't really look like himself. He looked sad, and was subdued. He was pale, his eyes distant and guarded. There was stubble on his chin, and he'd lost weight.

No wonder. His girlfriend vanished, he was facing four more years in prison, he'd been thrown in solitary for three weeks for escaping, and Peter had quashed his one faint hope.

The first order of the day was to find out if Caffrey resented him for turning down the deal. "I got your birthday card," said Peter.

Neal lowered his head and smiled, looking away, like he was embarrassed.

"Didn't know if I was off your list after rejecting your deal," said Peter.

Neal swallowed hard. "It was a pipe dream. I'm sorry I asked that of you."

"You're not pissed at me?"

Neal managed to meet his eyes, and shook his head. He didn't look pissed. He looked embarrassed, crestfallen, and still rather adoring. He looked lonely, and glad to see Peter.

"Decided to come slum it with me?" asked Neal. "Or did you rob a bank?"

"It was Larson's idea. We had a long talk about you. He seems like a pretty decent guy."

"He is," said Neal. "Wow, do you ever look nervous."

Peter frowned. "Uncomfortable. Not nervous. I'm affronted."

Peter glanced around the cell which seemed so much smaller with the door closed. But with the bed, and toilet, and drawings on the walls, he felt like he'd just been shoved into Neal's home without permission. "I'm - sorry to intrude."

Neal chuckled. "That's not really a concept that exists here. Relax. Sit down. It's just a room with a door that locks. It's comfortable and it's safe."

Maybe, but this was a tiny space to be confined in, and an ugly one. "Do you have to spend a lot of time in here?" asked Peter. He regretted the question a moment later. This whole facility was harsh, noisy, and tense. He was probably standing in the one place approaching a home and a safe haven Neal had.

"Sometimes," said Neal. "When the place is on lockdown, or I'm being disciplined, it's twenty-three hours a day. Most of the time, no. Usually the only time I'm locked in here is at night, like this. I don't mind."

Something he couldn't quite make out blared over the intercom, and it sounded like about twenty different people were shouting things from one end of the building to the other. Peter shifted uncomfortably on his feet. This place was so massive, and the cell he was standing in was so tiny, that the strangeness of it made his whole body tense. He wasn't frightened, it was just - off-kilter.

"This really is its own world, isn't it," said Peter. Being locked in here for years wouldn't just be a bleak prospect, it would shrink and disorient your whole viewpoint.

Neal nodded. "It might as well be on another planet, for all the connection it has to the outside."

Peter looked at the drawings on the walls. Different, from the last time he'd been here. The faces held a wounded vulnerability, and the shadows were dark and deep. He could see the talent from a mile away, the intelligence and precision in every line and highlight.

"Neal, you can be so much more than this." Something had gone very wrong, somewhere, when a guy who could contribute as much to society as Neal was capable of instead concentrated on fraud and theft. It sounded like a subway station in here, continual shouts and yelling and sound reverberating against hard surfaces.

"According to whose definition of more?" asked Neal. He still wasn't the witty, fiercely alive person Peter knew; more like a guy who resembled him physically and was acting the part of Neal Caffrey.

He'd turned his head away at Peter's statement, taking it as an attack. Neal walked a few feet away and sat down on the bunk, leaving Peter wondering uneasily if he'd just seen Neal limping.

"Mine," said Peter. "And that wasn't a criticism."

"The fact that I'm locked in this cell means that society doesn't want me in it," said Neal, shrugging. "So what's 'more'? More of me being who I am? Or do you mean less? That's what most people usually mean. Stop being what you're good at, and what makes you happy and your life worth living. Adopt a lesser existence, take a boring job, and subsist in a substandard apartment eating TV dinners and pretending to be a subservient moron. Know what 'sub' means? Below. When people tell me they want me to be more, they mean they want me to crawl into a hole and be their inferior."

"Do you honestly think all the joys in life are illegal?" asked Peter. "This looks like subsistence and subservience, right here. Confined and isolated with your life under the complete control of people who have the right to put you in chains? Neal, there's a camera watching you go to the bathroom. What do you call this?"

Neal grinned for the first time. "Getting caught. Being bad at my job."

Peter sighed and looked around for a place to sit down. Neal patted the bunk, and Peter joined him there, feeling more invasive than ever. And like he'd started off on a wrong note. Larson had been warning him between the lines that Neal was hurt, and vulnerable, and needed a friend. And then shoved him headlong into the guy's cell.

"You can't possibly have meant it, when you said you didn't care about getting another four years in this place," said Peter.

Neal shrugged. "Don't know if you've noticed, but I never lie to you, Peter."

"Didn't think it was a lie, just maybe...bravado?" suggested Peter. He had to take a moment to think about that. Of course Neal had lied to him. Hadn't he? Neal lied to everyone.

Something approaching genuine vulnerability, grief, or sadness filled Neal's eyes. "I'm not brave."

"I think you are," said Peter gently. "How could you possibly mean it?"

Neal did something Peter would never have expected. Snuck his arm out, mostly hidden from view, and took Peter's hand in his. He did it with amazing gentleness, maybe out of a desire to be nonthreatening, maybe out of shyness. He tucked his fingers into Peter's hand, and Peter responded on instinct alone, squeezing reassuringly and holding on.

"I've had a wonderful life," said Neal. "I've had more fun than you or anyone else I know, and even in here... I'd rather kill myself than take orders at Burger King or clean hotel rooms. But I'd never kill myself over being in here. Most of my life's been hard, and it's hurt, and I've never stopped finding ways to enjoy it."

"That's gotta be one of the most optimistic and painful things anyone's ever said to me," said Peter, returning honesty with honesty.

Neal smiled, and looked out the bars of the cell door to the concrete wall on the other side of the hall. His hand tightened. "I fell in love with art as a kid, when things had been pretty rough for a while. You look at the violence and pain and darkness and love and beauty and sex and passion and madness in art, and you see these things are universal to humanity. This place is no more or less painful than any of the rest of it. Life isn't easy and fun for most people, but I've lived in luxury hotels and tasted the best wine in the world and fallen in love. I've never been flogged or mutilated or any of the horrors you see in those old paintings."

Peter closed his eyes. This sort of sober, honest wisdom was the last thing he expected from Neal Caffrey. It was completely out of character from anything he'd encountered from him before. So was it a con?

And then he realized why Neal had taken his hand. As sort of a polygraph offering. _I know you aren't going to believe anything I say, so feel that I'm telling you the truth. Feel that I'm lost and found, scared and calm, heartbroken and happy._

No, it wasn't a con. It wasn't even out of character. It was what you got when you took Neal Caffrey and made him live in a cage in a dangerous warehouse for years, when you trapped him in that cage and made him open up to you right after he'd lost his girlfriend and his freedom again. Right after he'd gone through a punishment that even his guards clearly didn't want to think of him enduring.

That hand clinging to his was also the desperately lonely artifact of a social man who'd had his affection for people used to punish him, by locking him away alone in a cement box for weeks.

The guard who'd locked him in here with Caffrey was decidedly not dumb or unfeeling. This was Larson forcing him to see reality without the filtering structure of a visitor's room. "You - kinda let me catch you this time around."

Neal nodded and shrugged.

"Why, Neal? That was beyond being bad at your job, and I understand what you just told me, but I can't imagine you being one of those institutionalized guys who want to be here."

Neal was silent for a very, very long time.

"Neal?"

"If I tell you the truth, will you listen?"

"Yes."

"I -" his voice broke. "I think Kate's in trouble. I won't know until I find her. I know from experience I can't do that alone and on the run. From here, I have two chances. One is you. You did it once, you can do it again. The other is the most extensive collection of underground connections in New York. I prefer the first."

Peter leaned back against the cool, hard concrete wall of the cell. Actual honesty from Neal Caffrey. Interesting. Of course, he was leaving out the trifling little side motive of getting out of prison. But Peter would have expected Caffrey to play up the 'getting out of prison' motive, not the more vulnerable Kate angle.

Peter didn't want to talk about anklets right now. Didn't want to get Neal's hopes up, didn't want a sales pitch. He'd come out of sympathy, curiosity, and because the guard had asked him to. This was Peter's decision, and he didn't want Neal's input yet.

"I believe you," said Peter. "But I don't want to answer right now."

"Okay," said Neal. His eyes took on a minor twinkle for the first time. "Are you staying for dinner? I've got some candy bars and tap water. I make a wicked Snickers bar soup."

Peter disentangled his fingers from Neal's hand and patted him on the back. "I can't stand Snickers soup. But I'll make you my famous saltine crackers steeped in pruno, if you like."

Neal grinned. "Thanks for coming. Peter Burke, FBI agent, locked in a cell in Sing Sing, is gonna be one of my new favorite memories."

Peter realized he didn't really want to leave Neal's company. Despite the loaded history between them, this mutual affection could become genuine friendship almost instantly. Neal could be a valuable asset, a co-worker, even a partner. He stood, and squeezed Neal's shoulder. "You want me to come back sometime?"

The longing in Neal's eyes answered the question and wrenched at Peter's heart. "Stay?" asked Neal almost inaudibly. So much so that Peter could have pretended not to hear or notice.

Peter closed his eyes and sat like a sack of potatoes. The light was fading outside, the already opaque windows turning dark. The noise level was falling a bit, the hanging light becoming necessary to illuminate the inside of the cell. It was a comforting and achingly lonely shift. He put an arm around Neal's back, gripped his shoulder, and held him tight.

He had to consider it. Talk to Reese, talk to El, talk to the DOJ. Find out if it was even possible, first. Sure there was precedent, but he doubted the precedents were maximum security escapees.

"I'm not helping you stalk your ex-girlfriend. Nor am I using FBI resources to locate her, unless you can bring me compelling proof that she's in danger."

Neal's eyes lit up, and for the first time, he looked like Neal. "Does that mean -"

"I know I'm a stubborn hardass," said Peter. "I might have been doing a little reconsideration."

Neal sat a little straighter. He also stopped breathing and his face froze, as though if he moved he might scare a very flighty bird.

"Neal - please don't get excited, or get your hopes up, or try to talk me into this. It's complicated, and there are a dozen people and agencies who could shut the idea down cold. Including me. But - I've been giving thought to your crazy scheme."

Neal's eyes sparkled, and he grinned. Really grinned, that cocky, annoying, and right now, vastly reassuring grin. "So you need me after all."

"I need you like I need to be shot in the head," said Peter. "Control your damn ego for five minutes." He punched Neal lightly in the upper arm, and Neal swatted at him, and just like that, Caffrey was alive again.


	5. Worlds Apart

Peter walked into his home, and knelt to pet Satchmo. He was greeted by a wagging tail and affectionate nuzzles from a soft friend who loved him completely just for existing and coming home at night. He put his gun in the safe, and walked through the warmly lit living room to the kitchen.

It smelled like the world's best Mexican restaurant, the sound of sizzling accompanied by the scents of onions and chili peppers and chicken. A light jazz tune filtered through from the background, and El turned to greet him, smiling and licking sauce off a spoon. "I made fajitas," she said.

"I'm sorry, hon," said Peter, feeling guilty. "It was my turn to make dinner."

"And you're late. Feel bad, Husband. Feel very, very bad." She was smiling at him with the sort of love in her eyes that always made him want to pick her up, carry her to the bedroom, and not stop kissing her until the world ended.

And Neal said he'd had more fun in life than Peter. The man might be brilliant, but he had no clue. No clue how lucky Peter felt, surrounded by love and light and softness and warmth and safety after having been in that prison. No clue how rich life could really be.

They kissed, and Peter pressed his cheek against hers, closed his eyes, and held her. Realized his heart was still beating a little off-kilter from his recent experience. "I love you," he said softly. "I love us. We are so, so lucky."

How could he even contemplate something that could upset this balance? That could threaten his career, that could bring danger and darkness to their door? For...who? A convicted felon, a remorseless con artist, thief, forger, a man who made the world's worst and most dangerous impulse decisions? That Peter enjoyed his company and felt for him meant nothing stacked against what he stood to lose.

Neal himself had called the occupants of Sing Sing, his friends and peers, the biggest collection of underground contacts in New York. If there was a cardinal rule in protecting a marriage from the ravages of law enforcement, it was to leave work at work. An absolute separation of this warm, normal, soft world from the harsh, violent, cynical one he'd just exited.

He pulled away from El and started setting the table. Pretty plates and good food. Caffrey appreciated good food. Too bad he couldn't wave a magic wand to let that very wounded guy sit beside them tonight.

_You're not very good at seeing when people are throwing themselves at you,_ El had said. But even he couldn't mistake that hand tucked into his, and that half-whispered plea to stay.

No.

He couldn't bring Caffrey's world within a million miles of this. He sighed and finished putting out paper napkins, a few extra by his own elbow. For fajitas, he'd need them. He'd call Caffrey tomorrow and tell him it was a no-go. The guy was an adult, he'd done this to himself, and it wasn't Peter's job to rescue him from his own recklessness.

"Take the tortillas and the veggies, hon," said El. He arranged them on the table. Even the warm tortillas smelled good enough to eat on their own. He opened a bottle of wine, and poured for both of them.

Maybe he could make it absolutely clear to Neal that their arrangement began at work and ended at work. He was never to get near his house or his wife, or even call him after hours. No involvement with his personal life, and the first time it happened, he was back in prison. Neal would be a fixture of the office alone and would stay there. That could work.

Absolute separation of work and personal life.

They sat down to dinner, and El gave him a fascinated look. "So tell me about visiting Neal."

As they ate, he told her about the prison, and Neal's disheartened and vulnerable state, and how he'd come alive when Peter held out hope and their playful little spurt of roughhousing.

"I don't know." He threw up his hands. "He's young, he's - I spent eight hours in interrogation with him and I wanted to bring him home like a stray puppy, not dump him in the detention center. I'm afraid I won't be objective. His con works on me a little too well. I don't even know why I'm considering this."

"I do," said El.

"Why?"

"You love a challenge, and Neal's always been your biggest one. Now that you've caught him, the only thing harder would be reforming him."

"Maybe," said Peter between bites of fajita. "He's challenging, all right. And he's using me. He's using me as a way to get back out of prison and hunt for Kate."

"And you'd be using him to boost your closure rate. Hon - the woman he loves is missing, and nobody's looking for her. I can only imagine that worry, and the pain of not being able to do anything."

Yeah. Kate. He wasn't a fan of Kate, or her cold eyes and expressionless face. "That, or she dumped a convicted felon, left him a wine bottle to say goodbye, and moved on with her life. That, or she's running a long con on him and he's too besotted to see it. I have a feeling I'd be an accessory to stalking, not a white knight."

"Do you think he's been changed or traumatized by prison?"

Peter looked away and grimaced. "God, I wish he hadn't been sent to that place. I doubt he's changed much. He's grown up, he's skinny and tough, but he's the same guy. Traumatized - not in the sense of cowering in a corner, but I can't imagine he isn't carrying some significant scars. And yes, I do feel sorta responsible."

He finished his food, and stood and poured them both more wine, sitting with a sigh. "I like him. I just plain like the guy. And he likes me. I get stuffed in a cell with him and in minutes we're talking like old friends. But getting people to like him is his primary expertise, and the best way to do that's to make people think you like them and admire them. Whole reason con artists succeed is people wanna feel like they're smarter and more insightful than anyone else."

They drank wine in silence for a couple minutes, thinking. "Why won't you just listen to your gut on this?" asked El finally.

"He's a con man. His whole schtick is to be endearing and likable. He uses people's capacity for affection, sees whether you want him to be strong or weak. When I was in that prison after he escaped - people adored him. Guards and prisoners. That doesn't just happen because you're a nice guy, it means he's playing two sides expertly. He knows how to be compliant and safe and sweet around the guards, and calculating and subversive around the inmates."

El smiled. "Is there anyone he's truly nasty to?"

"Yes, his victims. Being the target of a crime, even a white collar one, violates something in people."

"Do you think he realizes that?"

"He's brilliant. He knows people. There's no way he doesn't know exactly what he's putting someone through when he betrays them and rips them off."

El sipped at her wine. "Maybe that's why he wants to switch sides?"

"I don't think it's anything as noble as that. Could be he wants a pet FBI agent and an inside line on our investigations," said Peter.

"Or he wants to give you a chance to show him your way of doing things," El pointed out. "You're a good man and he admires you. He might never have had that before."

Peter reached down and handed Satchmo a piece of chicken he wasn't going to eat, and stroked his head. That was the sort of thing he wanted to believe. It made him look good, and made Neal out to be a misguided soul waiting for a savior. There might even be truth in it, but he was no benevolent role model, and Neal was no tragic innocent.

"That could be a prettier version of part of the dynamic," he admitted softly. "But Neal's a self-centered felon who breaks the law because it's fun and he wants to. And I'm - not all softness and light. I'm an FBI agent because it's fun and I want to. I just figured out how to play in the half of the sandbox that doesn't get you sent to jail."

El stood up, came to his chair, and tugged him around to face her. "You are good. You have a gentle heart. Nothing else matters." She kissed him on the forehead, and stroked the side of his face. "If that incredibly good soul of yours still feels bad about where Neal ended up, and I think it does, this could be a sort of redemption for you. Even if he runs, even if he never changes, you will have done what your heart needed you to do."

Peter reached up and hugged her, pulling her off balance, and she stumbled into his arms. They ended up in a heap on the floor, and held each other, lying down face to face. "You are the best man I've ever known," said El. "You may be the best man he's ever known, and that could be why he gravitates towards you."

"It could make me look like an easy mark," said Peter. "I've let my guard down more around him than most suspects."

"What's the worst thing you think he'll do if he's free?" asked El.

"Use me to find Kate, steal things and use his in with the FBI to cover for it, and run away somewhere with no extradition."

"He won't hurt anyone?"

"Just me," said Peter soberly. He stood up, extending a hand to El and pulling her to her feet. They went to the living room, and he lay down on the couch, and El laid down stretched out on top of him. She snuggled down against him with her head on his chest where she could look up and meet his eyes. They stayed like that, silent, for a while, stroking each other, relaxed, eyes closed.

"I know how much this guy tugs at my heart, and - if I do this, I'm essentially going to be adopting a felon," said Peter.

El chuckled. "I think you adopted him a long time ago. You've always been a little obsessed with the people you chase, but with him, it didn't end when you caught him. You obviously care about him, and it sounds to me like he adores you."

A faint smile formed on Peter's lips. "You're encouraging me to do this, aren't you?"

"No." She was smiling. Her patiently adoring smile of accomodating the eccentric husband. "It is a big decision, and I'm not making it for you. But you are obsessed with him. Neal Caffrey has been a part of this household for a long time, you might as well make it official."


	6. A Smaller Prison

Peter closed the door and put his head down on the desk. He hadn't had this many people laugh in his face in his entire life. He might as well be officially proposing that he come to work naked from now on.

At least he'd found there wasn't any law ruling it out, knew what paperwork needed to be filed, and had a stack of precedents and rules and standards on his desk. But one thing was clear: if he did this and Caffrey ran, Peter would be branded a moron for the rest of his career.

The FBI Very Special Agent who caught one of the most infamous modern-day white collar criminals, and then, when said criminal politely requested it, let him escape.

He picked up the first packet of information. He, Peter discovered, would be called a handler, and Caffrey would be called a Confidential Informant. In other words, Peter would sound like he was showing a dog or running an international spy. Caffrey would be called a snitch, even though he'd be working as an investigator, not a tattletale. They should call him a...consultant, or something.

There were some amazing stories of trust and friendship and even love in these files. There were also sad ones, ones that ended with the CI half of a partnership back in prison for a long time. And there were chilling tales of careers destroyed and people killed. Awful agents treating the CIs whose lives relied on them horribly. One had sent his CI back into prison as a punishment for human error on a case. That CI killed himself, and the agent lost his job.

A CI and an agent had gotten married. A CI had been brutally murdered, and the FBI and his handler lost the inevitable lawsuits. One drained his handler's bank account, stole all his valuables, and fled the country. Another stole almost a million dollar's worth of drugs and cash from evidence. One jumped in front of an active shooter and took three bullets to protect his injured handler.

It was the rare, beautiful ones that stood out in his mind. Deep and enduring friendship and bonds as strong as family. People reformed by the experience when nothing else had swayed them.

And those made him think of Neal Caffrey. Incorrigible, impulsive, charming, diabolically intelligent Neal Caffrey. They'd liked each other even when Peter had arrested him the first time. Almost four years and a prison break later, they still liked each other. He'd made a career trusting his gut, and it was telling him that he and a con artist could be one of those incredible partnerships.

Reese knocked and walked in, closed the door, and sat down across the desk from Peter. He'd stopped laughing at least; that had to be a good sign. "Can I trust this man around my agents?" asked Reese.

"_I'm_ a more violent guy than he is," said Peter. "He's stable, good-natured, and no, he's not gonna spit in your coffee."

Hughes nodded and thought for a minute. "It sounded to me like you wanted to allow him to do field work. Why? It's dangerous. Anything happens to him, we get sued."

Peter leaned back and drew a deep breath. "Reese - anything happens to him in the field I'm gonna feel so awful a lawsuit'll be the least of it. But he needs to be challenged and he lives for the adrenaline rush as much as any of us. I don't think we could _keep_ him out of the field, so we might as well officially let him do it so he'll have backup."

Hughes raised his eyebrows. "There is nothing reassuring about what you just said."

"There's nothing reassuring about Caffrey," said Peter dryly. "But he could be a valuable asset. Right now, one of the most talented minds in white collar crime is nothing but a drain on society. If he works with us for four years, he could repay more into the public good than he ever took. We might even reform him."

"Four years?" Hughes actually stared at him. "I thought we were talking about one case."

Peter shrugged. "That's all it'd be at first. But if he gets us the Dutchman, wouldn't you like to see what else he's capable of?"

"And this is a responsibility you're willing to take on?" asked Hughes. "This is more than an employee. This is a human being placed in your custody. Everything from his welfare to his actions would be your moral and legal responsibility."

"I know, Reese," said Peter in a soft voice. "And I'm scared. But I think it could be worth it."

Hughes studied him for several minutes in silence, then stood. "If you're determined to do this, I'll sign off on it."

When Reese had left, Peter picked up one of the other files he'd requested, and held the folder without opening it. Caffrey's interrogation transcript. Possibly the most fruitless interview he'd run in his life. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought Caffrey had some kind of CIA counter-interrogation training.

And it'd also been the most purely fun. They'd played with each other verbally for hours, shared pizza, and even gotten into a minor roughhousing match over a handcuff key Caffrey had smuggled in behind his ear. They hadn't even been able to pretend it was antagonistic, even though they both tried more than once and just ended up laughing hysterically. And of course, Caffrey had tried to steal everything from salt and pepper packets to Peter's watch to the bolts holding the table together.

Peter smiled as he opened the folder. This transcript might have to make its way into his personal "Caffrey box." But right now, he wanted to follow up on Caffrey's oddball claim that he'd never lied to Peter. Later that afternoon, he closed it.

Diversions. Silences. Deliberate misinterpretations. Half-truths. Every kind of evasion and trickery under the sun. But over the course of an almost eight-hour interrogation lasting into the early morning, Neal Caffrey had never lied to him.

He lied to everyone. Not to Peter.

Peter set the file aside and started filling out forms. He wouldn't submit anything yet; he wanted to talk to both El and Neal again first.

Filling out the paperwork took hours, and was a chilling process. He could already tell he had a fight ahead with the DOJ, even if the release was approved. Caffrey wouldn't be on parole, it would be a limited work release.

Parolees had a solid set of rules, boundaries, and due process rights. This 'work release' program was more like checking a felon out of a library. Anyone from Peter to the DOJ to prison officials to literally any FBI agent could return him at any time, for any reason. He was an inmate.

Peter could search him, drug test him, confine him to a cell, restrain him, search his living quarters, limit and monitor his communications, control who he came into contact with, put cameras and listening devices in his living quarters, and pretty much rule every aspect of his life. By default, he'd be under strict house arrest when not at work. He couldn't drink, access the internet, or own a smartphone.

How was he supposed to forge a trusting relationship and offer Neal any sort of stability if anyone could throw him back in prison at any time for no reason? How could he even look Neal in the eyes while holding that appalling and humiliating degree of power over him? Let alone convince him this was a life worth not running away from? Peter would be a one-person prison, a smaller prison with all its indignities inflicted by him personally.

Feeling a little nauseated, Peter finished the paperwork and started re-writing the release terms. He'd wait until the deal was approved, then hit them with his version.

* * *

><p>Peter was almost getting used to checking in through security at Sing Sing. He was also coming up in the world. They knew his name, and instead of dumping him in a visiting area, took him on a trek that ended in a tidy, clean, utterly dismal little office with pitted concrete floors and no windows. It belonged to Gary Radner, a Lieutenant who oversaw Neal's unit. Radner was a tall, slim man nearing retirement age who walked with a slight permanent limp. Peter'd met the guy before, in the wake of Neal's escape, and liked him. He'd practically begged Peter not to shoot Neal when they found him.<p>

Radner stood up, his scraped-up and chipped wooden chair letting out a wobble and a squeak of protest, and shook hands. Caught the direction of Peter's gaze. "You think that's bad? There's a blood stain on the back. This is the one workplace in the world that doesn't let you replace a chair for silly little reasons like 'was used as an aggravated assault weapon and thrown down a flight of stairs."

Peter eyed the similarly battered desk, and the 1950's vintage metal file cabinet that boasted what looked an awful lot like a bullet hole. "I'm never complaining about the White Collar coffee machine again."

He sat down and explained why he was there. Radner laughed in Peter's face just like all the others, but he was getting used to that by now. And like the others, it didn't take Radner long to start contemplating it.

"Watch your career if you do." The Lieutenant looked down. "The amount of shit Caffrey pulls is unbelievable. But he's got this amazing tactical power of making you want to help him get away with it. Now - with most criminals, you cut them slack or help them get away with something, next you know they've got you by the shorts and it's blackmail time. Caffrey - doesn't hold anything over you or do anything but be grateful. So you get tempted to do anything in your power to help him, an' it spirals into corruption fast."

"Exactly how hard is he to deal with?" asked Peter with no small amount of trepidation.

"He's - not quite a model inmate," said Radner. "He has all the impulse control of a five-year-old, and even less regard for consequences. He absolutely gets into trouble. But the escape was the only only really serious thing. He's easy to manage, and he's got a sweet nature. He helps other inmates, especially new ones adapt to the place, and no CO ever has to be afraid of him."

"What's he get in trouble for?" Peter asked.

Radner seemed reluctant, almost like he didn't want to rat Neal out to Peter. "He's a compliant prisoner, he'll never fight you. But that doesn't mean he's good at following orders in general. And he - just doesn't have a "this is dumb" detector."

"Specifically?" prodded Peter.

Radner gave in. "He set up a fireworks display on Fourth of July using stuff he swiped from around the facility. It wasn't a distraction for a hit, or a threat, or to hurt anyone or damage the facility. It was like he just went, hey, you know what this maximum-security prison could use? A home-made explosive display!"

Peter tried, but laughter won over professionalism. "He - set - off - fireworks?"

The lieutenant laughed too, sounding relieved at Peter's reaction. "Yep. That he made himself. You kinda end up wanting to hug the guy while they're throwing him in the box."

Peter grinned. "Try arresting him. Or, heaven forbid, interrogating the guy."

Radner gave him a sideways glance with a twinkle in his eyes. "Wanna hear another one?"

"Yup," said Peter.

"He teaches art classes, and he's a bit of a rock star at getting killers arguing the fine points of Sargent's use of color. The biggest rule is no porn, but you know how many old masterpieces are nudes. Caffrey had no problem just focusing on other works, but the other inmates, they wanna push the envelope...so he holds this advanced class where they depict classic subjects covered with prison tats, and the Mona Lisa in a cell, and it's actually all pretty amusing and insightful. He's a classy guy, and he elevates the tone."

"Sounds like Caffrey," said Peter.

"Anyways, inmates giving each other tattoos isn't allowed. Happens, but it leads to all kinds of nasty infections. Caffrey walks into the classroom one day and finds some of these morons got the bright idea of using paints to give each other tattoos. Well, those paints are pigmented with nasty stuff, like cadmium and cobalt, and Caffrey's smart enough to know it. So he's giving six gang members the riot act about carcinogens in the bloodstream, and they're like, we don't give fuck all about knives and bullets in the bloodstream, you think we give a shit about some kid's paint set? Caffrey knows they're just gonna steal the paints, so he tells them to give him a week. Presto, Caffrey's making artist-grade colored tattoo inks. And getting into a massive amount of trouble for it."

Peter tried not to laugh, and it came out a choked snicker. "I'm stuck on the image of him chewing out half a street gang for using the wrong ink."

"Oh, believe me. You're not the first one," said Radner. "He's the machine shop second foreman. We have a kid that looks like a runway model in charge of enough muscles and tattoos to fill the entire WWE. But there's nothing he can't fix, solve, or build, so he has their respect as the best foreman in the joint. One day I walk in there and he's using about four different colored markers on the white board ever so patiently lecturing a mob enforcer who's...not the brightest...on metric to imperial conversions and how a conversion fail crashed the Mars orbiter."

Peter blinked. "Great. I wanna take on a guy who sasses the contents of my nightmares."

Radner smiled. "When you brought him back, I yelled and screamed at him. Told him he was gonna get his sentence extended, how stupid he was and all the hell that was gonna rain down on him in here. He just stood there and waited for it to be over. He was almost bored. But - I care about this guy, and my biggest fear after he escaped was that he was gonna get shot. So after I've yelled at him with everything I've got, I hugged him and said I was relieved he was okay, and I'm here if he needs support through all this. _That's_ when he apologizes. Not to the guy figuratively kicking his ass, but to the guy who cares about him."

Peter looked down. "I think he needs support," he said quietly.

"I think they traumatized the hell out of him," said Radner, not putting too fine a point on it. "For Caffrey? That was torture, not discipline."

There was a knock on the door. It was a guard, escorting Neal. "On that cheery note..." said Lieutenant Radner dryly. "Your torture victim's out there grinning at us."


	7. Try

Neal came in, and Ratner took his leave. He looked better today, if only marginally. He'd shaved, and his chin was up, and he was smiling. But Peter had been right. He was trying to hide a limp. And he was skinny as hell.

"Sheesh, Neal. They ever feed you in here?"

"Every single week, without fail," Neal quipped.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Neal..."

A brief flash of anger crossed Neal's face, quickly hidden. "I sorta lost my appetite for a bit." His voice was cold and sarcastic, but his anger didn't seem to be directed at Peter.

Peter lowered his voice so that anyone who might be lurking outside the door couldn't hear. "Neal, you being bullied or mistreated?"

Neal shook his head. But he didn't meet Peter's eyes.

Peter angled his head away from the door, hiding his mouth from view. He almost whispered this time. "Anyone threaten you about talking to me? Signal me."

Neal broke out in a weak smile. "Peter, you're awesome. And I'm fine. It's been rough, but - I'm safe and supported."

And that was honesty. That had been a clear opportunity for Neal to make up a heart-wrenching story that Peter would have believed and that would have cinched his release and gained him a very protective FBI agent.

"Ah - have you seen the terms of these work release agreements?" asked Peter.

Neal shifted weight off his right leg. "Yes."

"They're fucking terrifying," said Peter. "It's not like being on parole, you still belong unconditionally to the prison system, and the deal can be terminated and you tossed back in here for any reason by me, my bosses, the warden, the DOJ, anyone. No due process, no hearings, nothing. You're a prisoner. I talked to one agent who did this, and he keeps the poor guy locked up in the local jail when they aren't working active cases. I've got no intention of doing that, but it gives you an idea how little this resembles freedom."

Neal was acting. His chin was tilted up a little too high to be playful confidence. His cheery little half-smile didn't reach his eyes, which were devoid of their usual dimension and life. His confidently squared shoulders and the deliberately casual slouch of his stance were at odds. "You are aware of where I live right now, right? You didn't think that cell was a prop in a Broadway show?"

Grin.

He wasn't just acting, he was acting _badly_.

He was no less broken, no less shaken back on his foundation, than he had been in the cell the day before. But he had to hide it now, both for his prison audience and, most likely, to try to prove to Peter that had been a temporary lapse in perfection.

"Neal, I'm considering this," said Peter quietly.

The act was gone. Two stressed, anxious, completely exhausted blue eyes met his. Peter had been expecting joy and life and excitement. Neal was barely able to endure right now.

"Get out of here," said Neal.

"What?"

"Get out of here. I don't need to be played with, condescended to, or treated like I might be your special rescue mission if only I pass ten auditions and clap on command."

Peter blinked. There was no sincerity, no real anger or coldness behind the words. Neal could barely stand. His right leg kept trying to give out from under him. The confident act was taking all the strength he could muster, and true emotion or conflict or even hope could crumble it.

Peter touched him on the shoulder for just a second on the way out the door. "Cowboy up. You'll make it."

* * *

><p>Idling the engine while he waited for the gate to open, Peter looked at the prison buildings in the rear view mirror. He'd resisted this childish, unprofessional, completely illogical little spurt of rage for too long.<p>

_If you've broken my Neal Caffrey, I'll kill you_.

Driving home, the light was falling. When he opened the front door, it put him right back in that cell, holding Neal while evening turned to night. Peter, for reasons completely unknown to him, walked upstairs, sat down on the toilet and gagged. He retched, but didn't throw up, and then he noticed his hands were shaking.

And then he did throw up. All he could see were those unending rows of barred cells and concrete, and hear two separate supervisors freely admitting affection for Neal while acknowledging that he was put through something unbearable.

He remembered being in that cell with Neal, in his world, welcomed gently as a guest into a home and spoken to as a friend. The insane level of noise, constant shouting because that was the only way to be heard over all the other voices. The dull, pained look in Neal's eyes, and the limp he hid.

Neal Caffrey, his Neal Caffrey, the man he'd chased, the man whose conviction he'd secured, the man who'd sent him champagne and gourmet cookies while stealing and forging the world's most expensive objects, was in a terrifying warehouse for killers and thugs. That wasn't new knowledge.

That was an uncomfortable truth he'd lived with for four years because he had no power to change it. But now - now it was making him retch because he did have the power to change it. Every week Caffrey spent in there past that four years was going to feel like a personally inflicted sentence, something he personally was doing to the man.

El came in, and saw the sickness and conflict and grief. She knew where he'd been, and why, and knelt down and hugged him. She tugged and nudged and pulled him off the toilet onto the floor, and held him. "Was it that bad?" asked El.

Peter nodded, collapsing into her arms. "That place is - so wrong for him, it's -" he could still feel his fingers trembling, and he clenched his fists. "Hideous. It's hideous, putting a non-violent man in there. I feel like I have to get him out. I can't even imagine how awful this stint in solitary was for him, to leave him so subdued and begging me not to leave him last night. And today - he could barely stand, and talk, and look human all at once."

He didn't tell El what Neal had said to him. Those tough words had been one of the most broken things he'd ever heard, and they were staying private.

"But?"

"But - but even the guards who like him and admire him don't think there's much chance of rehabilitating him."

She stroked his arm, and kissed his cheek. "Do you?"

"I don't know. I'm no expert of rehabilitating criminals, I'm an expert in catching them."

"You don't have to feel personally responsible for rehabilitating the guy. Just try and work with him."

Peter shook his head. "This goes three possible ways. One, he comes out, helps me catch or not catch the Dutchman, and he goes back. All I've done is give him a taste of freedom to torture himself with. Two, we keep working together, he reoffends, and goes back for even longer, and I feel like that's something I should have prevented. Three, he actually does go straight. That's the least possible and the only tolerable outcome."

"Try."

"I don't even have kids. Let alone a juvenile delinquent, let alone a grown man who's an unrepentant felon. Let alone a brilliant, manipulative con artist who's spent four years constantly maneuvering for survival. I'm pretty sure that's been the story most of his life, not just in prison. Even I couldn't find anything out about his childhood, and that's not a good sign. For all I know he was abused or molested or homeless. It's a common origin story for these guys. And I've got no clue how to deal with it. All I knew was a stable family and loving parents."

She held him tight. "Try. Just be yourself. You've got amazing instincts, you know Neal, and he's fond of you. Just take it one day at a time and remember that if you're one single bit a better jailer than Sing Sing Penitentiary in any respect, he's better off with you. He'll know it too."

Peter drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay. I'm doing this."


	8. Sadists with Squirrels

**PETER**

Peter was angry. No, he was furious. He'd fought his way through the DOJ, the management of Sing Sing, the US Marshal's office, and the Bureau of Prisons. Reese had even arranged for an FBI lawyer to work with Peter.

Every last agency representative had laughed, eventually approved the application, thrown a fit at Peter's modifications, and after re-submissions and hearings, reluctantly approved them. That had been bureaucracy, not malice.

It was a panel of two state corrections officials, people who should never have had the least bit of authority over a federal offender, who were currently incurring Peter's wrath.

One, a severe white-haired woman in her forties, was clearly sucking up to Peter's current opponent and would follow his decision. The man Peter wanted to punch right in the teeth was Clyde McManus, an overweight, bald authoritarian who should have retired ten years ago and who did a bad job hiding his sadistic streak.

"Look - you start out hard on him, make his life hell, and make him earn his way up. It's the way they do things in prison, and it works," said McManus. He leaned back in his chair, smiled, and pulled out a tin of snuff. "If he knows you can throw everything he owns out the window and set a torch to it right before you make him strip and show you his asshole, he'll be more inclined to obey you."

Peter clenched his fists and drew in a deep breath while McManus packed his cheek like a demonic squirrel. _Pretend he's a suspect. Pretend he's a suspect, you're in interrogation with him, and you have to keep your emotions in check._

"Yeah, it worked so well he broke out," said Peter, his voice so calm he impressed himself. "Look - this guy is beyond intelligent. He'll know that game, and he'll play it, and he'll find a way to beat it. He'll have no reason to see me as anything but the guy oppressing him. We'll be using each other, and he'll get the better of that game. I'm gonna give him standards to live up to. I'm gonna treat him with ethics and honor and he won't want to fall short of me."

McManus's eyes narrowed. He didn't like Peter's rational reaction. "Whatcha gonna do when he needs to be disciplined?"

"I'm gonna do what any decent supervisor would," replied Peter. "Tell him what he did wrong, and show him how to handle it next time."

McManus masticated with his eyes half shut for a minute. "I'm talkin' 'bout somethin serious."

Peter glared at him. "Take him out behind the office and beat him, of course. Maybe find an old set of stocks and lock 'im in those out front of the FBI building. Chain him up in the basement on bread and water for a week? He's a _person_. A smart, friendly, cooperative person who has _asked_ to do this job."

Damn. The bastard got to him. And was smirking. At least Peter had stopped himself prior to, "you asshole." He recalled the lawyer's instructions. _Remember it's being recorded. If you don't win in there, what'll be important is the transcript if we need to put an appeal in front of a judge. Argue your case._

Peter cleared his throat and tried to ignore the excited gleam in McManus's eyes. "If he fails to be an asset to the FBI, or if he commits a crime, he'll be returned to prison. With respect, that's all the control I or any reasonable person should need."

McManus rolled his eyes. "You're a naieve little fuck, aren't you? My recommendations stand. He's confined to jail when he's not at work, he's restrained when he's out of your sight, and he doesn't so much as touch a computer or phone. This is a maximum security escapee, and if you can't stomach the measures to keep him under control, you shouldn't be handling him in the first place."

Peter dug his fingers into the armrest of his chair so hard he could feel the wood give way under his fingernails. There had been a sexual relish in the way the word "handling" rolled off McManus's tongue. This was harder than maintaining his temper around a loathesome suspect, because he wasn't the one in control.

"He. Will. Run." Peter caught himself almost yelling. "Wouldn't you? Imagine doing this to one of _your_ co-workers."

He realized McManus would probably get off on imagining just that, and changed course. "Imagine if _your_ boss checked you into jail every night and acted like an abusive spouse, not letting you use a phone or drink. You wouldn't just run, you'd want to kill the fucker."

"He's a prisoner, not an employee," said McManus. He spat his chew into a clear glass with a sickening splat. "Your argument is invalid."

Peter bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until his desire to punch McManus subsided. Then, completely ignoring McManus as though he didn't even exist, Peter addressed the woman. He kept his voice calm, gentle, and reasonable.

"When I arrested Caffrey the first time, he was literally tripping over himself to cooperate. It wasn't fear. None of us had to do so much as say a stern word to him. He was trying so damn hard to impress us. I got out my cuffs after his interrogation to take him to the detention center, and he stood up, tried about four ways to hold his hands out to me in as many seconds, and he was relieved when I told him what to do."

"And your point is?" she asked, her voice cold. Peter struggled to remember her name. She'd been acting as though she didn't exist. Lancaster. That was it.

"Ms. Lancaster, his whole body flinched when I put those cuffs on him. He was trying that hard to cooperate with something he was - really dreading. You've never met this guy. It's his brain, his skill set, and the way his mind works that makes him an escape risk. He's gentle and compliant. I could have gotten through both of his arrests without handcuffs if we were allowed to. You're acting like physical control will keep him from escaping, and completely ignoring that's what supermax is all about. If you'll recall, he strolled out the front door. What you're proposing'll just give him opportunities to escape and reasons to want to."

"You want to be nice to him so he won't run away?" She sounded skeptical, but she was listening.

"No," said Peter bluntly. "I want it to be a choice. Skipping on that anklet knowing I'll never forgive him, I'll track him down without mercy, and that he'll be back in prison for a couple decades locked in the highest security unit they can find. Or sticking around, leading a decent life with a good job and friends and cases that are just as challenging as his criminal hijinks."

McManus realized he was losing control and broke in. "You don't have what it takes to control a high-security prisoner."

Peter looked at the man coldly. "I can make Neal Caffrey cry with a few words. I can read him. I know him. I can hurt him and I can control him."

He'd meant to prove his asshole chops. But when the words came out, he realized they were true. He shivered inside. _Wield that power with care, Burke._

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

"Hi, Neal," said Peter.

Neal couldn't answer. It had been two weeks since he'd clung desperately to a man whose respect he longed for, begging him not to leave. Four years since he'd had a panic attack and thrown himself at the guy in terror after his sentencing. Not nearly long enough since he'd gotten through the most agonizing three weeks of his life by putting himself in an alternate fantasy world where Peter agreed to the anklet scheme instead of laughing at him.

Two weeks since Peter had informed him that he was considering it.

And since he, consumed with complete and utter humiliation at the realization that Peter was there because he saw Neal as a broken, terrified, crying creature in need of rescue, had kicked Peter in the teeth for offering help. Two weeks since he'd sunk his one chance at what he wanted most out of the world.

He, completely dazed, hurting, exhausted beyond words, and barely able to cope with being alive after emerging from solitary, had attacked rather than falling.

He'd never expected to see Peter again.

He wasn't sure how to _face_ Peter again.

He could apologize. And the unfailingly intelligent, understanding agent would have complete compassion for the reasons behind Neal's outburst. But he wanted Peter's friendship, and respect, and trust. Not his guilt-ridden sympathy.

If there had been one thing capable of saving his soul that night, it was Peter Burke sitting in his cell holding him while the light fell. Not talking, not asking questions, just anchoring him when he desperately needed someone at his side to face the world with him. When he had been at his weakest, Peter had been there to lend strength.

But Peter had seen him at his weakest. Over and over again. And he wasn't sure he could handle being viewed that way by someone he respected.

"That wasn't me," said Neal. It was the only statement that seemed to cover everything.

"It was only part of you," Peter corrected, sounding firm and confident. "You've only seen me in the parts of life I'm best at. If we ever do end up working together, you'll see the dork who's sometimes barely capable of ordering a sandwich, and spends ten minutes on my knees apologizing to my dog for making him wear a hand-knitted sweater."

Neal felt the grin coming from somewhere deep inside him and burst out snickering at the image of this guy who was so powerful in his life, apologizing to a dog in a knitted sweater. He wondered what, say, Sergeant Larson got up to in his off time. Those could be some deeply entertaining mental images.

"A couple months ago I ran over a squirrel. I looked in my rear view and it was still moving." Peter bit his lower lip, his cheeks taking on a decidedly pinkish blush. He tapped his fingers on the table in lieu of squirming as an embarrassed displacement activity.

"I - love squirrels," admitted Peter. "There's one at home who comes when I call him and eats out of my hand. I get out of my car, and - I was crying, thinking I'm gonna have to shoot this little guy, and he's dying a horrible death because of me. I come running over, and there's this wind-up plush toy squirrel on the ground behind my car. I pick it up, and that's the exact moment Hughes, _my boss_ walks up on me holding a mangled toy squirrel with tears in my eyes."

A sort of uncontrolled joy flooded through Neal, and he found himself grinning so hard his face hurt. So there _was_ coming back from this after all.

"Oh, I'm not done," said Peter, grinning back with gleeful mischief written on his face. "An hour later, I'm interviewing a fraud victim. Young, female, vulnerable...I swear to _God_ it was not what I meant, but I managed to imply that it might be a good thing if she lost her house, even if her fiance left her because of it, and that she was lucky not to be going to jail. So this girl is staring at me and sobbing, and Jones comes in looking like he wants to deck me, and I walk out of the interview room, and there's Hughes. You haven't lived until you see the expression of a man who's just learned one of his agents is a complete and utter sadist who also happens to cry over the bodies of dead mechanical squirrels."

Neal was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes, and he sat down, biting his lower lip in a futile attempt to stop. "Oh - that - it's worth four years in here just to hear that story."

"Wanna throw on an anklet and come murder mechanized woodland critters with me?" asked Peter.

Neal sucked in his breath. He'd said goodbye to that possibility forever when he'd lashed out at Peter. "Yes. Are you kidding me? Yes."

Peter's face went sober. "Then we need to have some very serious discussions, right here, right now."

"For which my reward will be a tracking anklet and a dead squirrel? As much as I hate serious, that's tempting."


	9. You Look Good in Orange

Neal still looked subdued, but his expression was alive again, and his pure relief at Peter's understanding was so palpable it was heartbreaking.

"You only get the dead squirrel if you help me catch a bad guy. It's like a merit badge sort of thing," said Peter.

Looking across the table at a man he'd met only a handful of times, it sank in for the first time, really sank in, that he was facing his future partner and friend. This was such a natural outcome of the game they'd been playing with mutual affection and fascination for years, that it was easy to overlook what an incredibly broken foundation this was to build a friendship on. But there it was. So natural that it was going to seem bizarre to walk out of here without him today.

"It may just be for one case," Peter warned him. "This could be a couple weeks of freedom, followed by 'enjoy the next four years in prison.' And - the basis of that decision might be completely unfair."

Neal raised his head with determination. This was hardened Caffrey, his long tough-guy hair pushed back so that an orange jumpsuit looked natural and almost threatening on him. "I'm _in_ prison. It's hard to get upset that I might go back to the status quo, or that I'd still be a prisoner."

"Okay." Peter regarded him for a bit. "I just don't wanna hurt you if that happens. And you're serving out your original sentence here. I'm not getting you out early."

"Okay," said Neal.

"You need to not see this as freedom. You need to look at it as prison, but prettier. I am in charge, absolutely and without question. If you get to go out to dinner with friends after work, it's because I'm letting you, not because you have that right."

"Fine, dad," drawled Neal sarcastically. He looked like he wanted to deck Peter. "But I draw the line at letting you spank me."

Peter wasn't prone to flashes of true anger, but that incited one, and he stood up and walked away with his fists clenched until he could speak without yelling. Then he spun to face Caffrey.

"You act enough like an egotistical teenager as it is. You will not play childish manipulation games with me. You're a grown, brilliant, educated man and you will act like it. You're going to be a prison inmate working in a position of public trust and confidence in an FBI office."

Neal seemed genuinely rebuked, not by the words but by Peter's anger. He stood too, facing Peter with his shoulders squared and his jaw tight. "You have no idea how seriously I take this chance. But if you don't want me to act like a kid, don't talk to me like one you're letting date your teenage daughter."

Peter pinned him down with his gaze, deliberately hardening his voice. "I like you. That didn't stop me from putting you in prison four years ago. It won't stop me from doing it again, or from locking you up in holding at the FBI, or shooting you for that matter. You screw with me, I can put you in a pretty deep hole and bury you."

Neal seemed to shrink. "Yes, sir."

"Oh good lord. Don't ever call me that again," said Peter.

"Okay?"

Peter huffed in frustration. Neal was wearing an uncomfortable smile and his face was tight with what looked like genuine stress. This guy was both impossible to control and easy to hurt. _And_ capable of playing him like a children's drum set. It was a good thing Peter enjoyed a challenge.

"Don't talk to me like I'm a prison guard," said Peter.

"You just talked to me like you were a prison guard," retorted Neal.

Peter arched his eyebrows. "Oh, so now I've got to get you out of here _and_ watch how I talk to you?"

"Actually? Most of the staff here is more polite than you are," said Neal. But there was a little smile, a genuine one, sneaking into his expression. "Talk to me however you like."

"Gee, thanks for the permission," said Peter, his voice sarcastic.

The door opened, and a uniformed corrections officer poked his head in. "Let's lower the temperature in here, guys. Take a seat."

Peter rolled his eyes. "We're not gonna get into a fight."

"Sit. Down."

They both obeyed, and the door closed.

"Well, that'll show me," said Peter dryly.

Neal didn't seem to have the energy to formulate a snappy reply. He suddenly looked skinny, small, and completely lost.

"Neal, you okay?" asked Peter. "You don't seem yourself, and you don't seem that excited about this."

Neal's blue eyes almost pierced his in their intensity. "Look - this would mean so much to me, that I - I'm terrified of getting my hopes up. Okay?"

He turned away, obviously struggling with his emotions. Finally he braved meeting Peter's eyes again. "Please don't talk about shooting me. You won't have to and - the idea breaks my heart."

Peter gulped at the sheer pain in Neal's expression. And his words. "I'll never - I'm sorry. Neal, I'm not gonna _shoot_ you."

But the pain was still there. Neal's blue eyes looked several shades darker than usual, and held a sort of agony that competed with a frighteningly fierce, dark expression. This Neal Caffrey could hold his own against gang members, and was protecting the Neal Caffrey who was near tears.

"You would if you had to. It's your job. Just - please don't remind me of that."

Peter's mind was at a stunned halt. Neal lectured the state's most-feared people on tattoo safety and metric conversions. Neal's reaction to another four years in here was, "I don't care."

_I'll shoot you_ was an affectionate office threat, one he'd even leveled at Satchmo. It was safe because of the understanding that he would never, ever do it.

"You seriously think I'd haul off and shoot you, like I sent you to prison and that's the next logical step or something?" asked Peter, baffled. "I've never so much as raised my voice at you through two felony arrests."

"I asked you not to talk about it," said Neal, giving him a somewhat wide-eyed glare. "That, in case you didn't know, means the opposite of 'by all means, let's discuss this at painful length.'"

"I'm not a fan of avoidance," said Peter. He wasn't any too certain of his footing. But needling him about it until it stopped hurting seemed preferable to leaving Neal with the heart-wrenching image of his own handler killing him.

"Are you, honestly, in any way, afraid that I'll _kill_ you?" asked Peter.

Neal closed his eyes. "If you had to -" his voice cracked. "I feel safe with you. I - it really moved me that you didn't use a gun when you caught me in the apartment. I just can't handle the_ idea_ of what - how much it would hurt if _you_ shot me."

Peter drew a deep breath. He'd been touched too, by the trust implicit in the way Neal responded to him in there. If he thought too hard about what it would feel like to actually shoot Neal -

Ah.

Not the brightest, Burke.

Neal wasn't afraid of Peter shooting him. He was afraid of his own behavior, of screwing up that horribly, and feeling helpless to do anything but watch someone he trusted fire a bullet into his chest.

He drew a deep breath. "I think on some level, we've trusted each other for years. There's no way this doesn't get rough. But the idea of something happening to you has haunted me... roughly since I got your postcard saying 'Sorry, I wasn't mauled by a shark.' It'll be okay."

Neal smiled at that memory.

"You really feel safe doing this, Neal?" asked Peter gently.

Neal nodded.

"Just so you know?" said Peter. "I've never shot anyone. Really not planning to start with you."

Neal grinned. "I haff vays off changing your mind. I have it on good authority that I'm a very shootable individual."

Peter cleared his throat and feigned awkwardness. "Ah - thing is, FBI policy on CIs is you break it, you buy it."

"On an FBI agent's salary? I don't think you can afford me."

"Know what I think? You look really _good_ in orange," said Peter.

"That's only because it makes a good target for novice shooters," retorted Neal. Peter grinned, and so did Neal. With absolute joy and unreserved playfulness.

Okay. Poke him with sharp sticks until he feels safe that they aren't spears covered with exotic frog-poison. This could work.

Peter forced himself back to the topics he was avoiding. "Neal - listen. It's all well and good to tell me these new anklets can't be hacked. Two seconds with a pair of scissors, and you're gone. I got laughed out of the US Marshal's office for even considering putting one on someone with your escape history."

Neal winced at "escape history."

"You skip on this anklet, it's a three strikes sorta deal. You could get decades just for running, and serve a hell of a lot of it locked up 23 hours a day in the SHU. I'm putting my reputation and career on the line, so if you run, I will never forgive you. It'll hurt me, having the trust I put in you betrayed. I will track you down without mercy. It will be my mission in life, and I will get you. You want to ruin any chance at a decent life, you cut that anklet. I will give you no second chances."

Neal looked at him for a long time, sadness and longing and worry and fear competing. But his eyes closed in defeat when he spoke. "Leave me here. That's too much at stake with too many variables I can't control."

It was Peter's turn to be silent, and to observe Neal. Those words sounded hard to utter, and he was quiet, and looked crushed. Not sulky, just incredibly sad.

Finally Neal spoke again. "Thanks - for offering me the chance. It means the world to me, and if there's ever anything I can do for you, name it."

Neal stood, looking tough and hard and utterly wrenched. "Goodbye, Peter. Thank you."


	10. An Uncertain Dance

"Neal, sit down," said Peter. Neal obeyed, his head still down. Peter tried to keep his voice gentle, because Neal looked like he needed that. He'd genuinely scared and intimidated Neal with his speech, which had been the intention. But not to wound him like this.

"Why is not running such an impossible thing to ask of you?" asked Peter. "It's simple. It's the basic tenet of the work release_ you_ asked for."

Neal kept his head low and didn't answer. "I'm not trying to set you up," said Peter. "Talk to me. Like a friend."

"It sounds simple to you." Neal managed to look Peter in the eye for a moment, and did seek him out as a friend. He looked so wounded, it hurt. Peter wondered if this was a ploy to manipulate his sympathies, and decided it wasn't. "If I just wanted to run, I'd break out again. I _want_ to work with you. Badly."

"So?"

Neal looked down at his cuffed wrists, and tugged lightly on the chain. He'd been fidgeting against them for a few minutes now. "I can get out of these."

"Just like you could an anklet?"

Neal nodded and held up his right arm, looking decidedly proud of himself. An open handcuff was dangling from it, and his left wrist was free. He gave an uneasy glance at the guard outside with his back to the door and ratcheted them back on a little too quickly. And that was Neal Caffrey in a nutshell. Risking the wrath of an angry corrections officer merely to show off and illustrate a sentence.

Peter wondered if that too had been deliberate, saw Caffrey's serious face and the keen intelligence in his mesmerizing blue eyes, and knew it had been. _This is who I am and I know it_.

"I've spent four years in this place when I could've escaped," said Neal. "But too many things could make me break the anklet perimeter or cut it. They lose signal sometimes. I could get held up, blackmailed, kidnapped, hit by a car and medevacked. If someone says come with me now or we kill Kate, I do it."

Peter shivered. "You think I'm the sort of person who'd punish you for being _kidnapped_? Who'd send you to prison for life if you got hit by a car and flown to a hospital?"

"No. But I know criminal justice. It's too rigid, and too complicated. It doesn't matter in here why you did something, or if -" Neal's voice choked off, and he looked away. "Peter - I knew all of this when I asked. It's just - I know what a risk you're taking on me. It's - my life I'm risking."

"I promise you mercy," said Peter. "I meant what I said about the consequences of running. But if you stay, and you sincerely try to work with me and give this your best shot, I will be on your side. If you cut that anklet because you have to, and you don't run, you come back an' face me, the world isn't gonna fall down on your head."

Caffrey took a deep breath and braced himself. "Okay." Neal managed to meet his eyes squarely. "I won't run from you." Neal was still looking at him with a certain amount of worry, and Peter knew this was a high wire of power and pride and friendship and fear they'd be traversing for a long time.

"Okay," said Peter. "Caffrey, if we do this, it means I'm going to be trusting you to be in my office, in my car, in my life. I know you don't have a violent bone in your body, I'm not worried about that. But can I trust you to be a good and safe person around the things that are important to me?"

"Yes." Neal's voice was certain.

"My home and my family are off limits to you. You associate with half the criminals in New York. You don't come anywhere near my wife, my dog, or my house. You are part of my work life, not my home life. Got it?"

Caffrey nodded, and Peter studied him. "You're a talented pickpocket, I'm sure you could drug someone...I'm a Federal agent. I carry a gun. I'll probably have some sort of override for your anklet. I need to know with absolute certainty that you won't ever, ever lift my gun or keys or disable me, even harmlessly. I have to be able to trust you with my life even while I hold the keys to your freedom."

"I protect my friends," said Neal. "I'm not going to take your gun, and if we end up in a tight spot, I will have your back. I promise. I wouldn't dream of hurting you or letting you get hurt. And - I grew up around law enforcement. I know how violating and how dangerous for you it would be to drug or incapacitate you in any way. I absolutely will not."

"Okay."

Neal grinned at him. "Can I play with your handcuffs though? They weren't on the no-stealing list."

Peter had to laugh. "Only when you're not in them. And no attaching me to things."

"There you go, taking all the fun out of it."

"I've been up front with my concerns," said Peter. "Let's address yours,'cause you've been looking at me a bit like I've grown eye stalks and might be planning to eat you."

Neal looked at him hesitantly. "I don't know how this is going to work -" His voice was gentle in a way Peter recognized. It was his own voice for conveying to victims and confessing suspects that it was okay to tell him something painful, something that broke the social taboos for a civilized conversation. "But if I have to be strip searched, is there any way another agent could do it? Just so that - there isn't that between us?"

Peter stared. "I'm not strip searching you."

He planted his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands. Prior to his rewriting it, the release directive had given him the authority to conduct strip searches. If Neal had read those...and he had - the enormity of the power Neal had been willing to let Peter have over him was staggering. That level of trust combined with the sheer, nearly victimized obedience that had been trained into him here was too jarring to contemplate.

_You don't have what it takes to manage a high-security prisoner._

Thank heavens.

"You're - they do that a lot in here?" asked Peter.

"Yes."

"After I visit you?"

"Among many other things," said Neal. When Peter didn't raise his face from his hands, his voice softened. "Don't let it bother you. Nobody likes it. But it gets routine and, you know, cuts down on brutal murders."

Peter sighed and looked up, folding his hands on the table. "I know they do it and why, that isn't what's bothering me."

"So..." Neal looked confused and gave him a wry sideways smile. "I sort of liked the idea of you being bothered by it..."

"You thought this was a thing that I might do, which isn't exactly flattering," said Peter dryly. "Then, you were prepared to accept it. That's what bothers me - what you've had pounded into you."

"I'm throwing myself into a complete unknown here," said Neal. "You tell me I'm going to be a prisoner, and that this is gonna just be a prettier version of prison - can you blame me for being just a tiny bit uncertain about what you mean? And by the way? I resent '_pounded into me_' on about five different levels."

Peter just sat for a while, thinking. The guy had lived for four years with his behavior, living conditions, and even what was done to his body under the strict control of other people. He'd be yanking Neal out of that and expecting him to transition back into normal life in an instant, with the further confusion of still being a prisoner in a world that looked free. Without the support of the friendships he'd formed in prison.

Neal could handle it. He had the intelligence, toughness, and adaptability to handle anything. Including a maximum security prison. But he was going to need a hell of a lot of emotional support while desperately trying to prove he didn't need any. This was going to be an uncertain dance indeed, for both of them.

"Neal - I know I've beaten you with a pretty big stick," said Peter. "I arrested you, and it lead to four years in this prison. But what I'm hearing behind the lines today is that you have no idea what else I might do, from shooting you to - what, stripping you down in the FBI office? Do you honestly think that's who I am?"

"No." Neal sounded fierce and deadly serious. There was intense affection reflected in his piercing blue eyes. "I'm in awe of the guy who caught me, made my arrest and interrogation a fond memory, held me and reassured me after I was convicted, sent me postcards and took my phone calls, and recaptured an escaped prisoner gently and kindly. You are everything that's good and right in law enforcement, and I'm painfully aware that's an image I've built up of a man I don't know. I'm bracing for reality, because no person is that good."

Peter blinked and cleared his throat, more emotional than he was comfortable with. "Well - reality is a dork with dead stuffed squirrels who gets really frustrated with you. I get tactless and irritable. I try to leave the murder and sexual assault to others. Anything else you're worried about?"

Neal looked down, twiddled his thumbs, and shifted position uncomfortably. "Pissing you off. If I'm in danger of being sent back, please tell me. I'd find it reassuring to know you won't send me back here if I say something impertinent, because I kind of do that constantly."

"You can be a snarky pain in the ass," said Peter. "I don't send people back to prison for having a personality."

That drew a broad smile out of him. "You may regret saying that."

"I'm absolutely _certain_ I will," said Peter. "And while we're on the subject, I'm fairly certain I'm going to end up chewing you out and getting pissed at you, and I am going to be your boss. I don't want you afraid getting yelled at means going back to prison."

"If you promise you mean that, I can be totally comfortable with it," said Neal.

Peter eyed him with a spark of humor. "Can you at least be a little uncomfortable with it?"

"We'll have to work out just how afraid of you I'm supposed to be," said Neal, tossing his head. Peter grimaced.

"Never. Never be afraid of me," said Peter. "Please." Neal had told him at the aftermath of his sentencing that he didn't understand rules, and if that was true, Caffrey was facing this and any other form of authority in a very uneasy state.

Neal gave him a soft, almost adoring look. "And please don't ever be afraid of me. I know you're taking a risk, and that it's going to take a long time to earn your trust, but I'll never do anything to hurt you or the people you care about."

"I believe that," said Peter, touching one of Neal's cuffed hands.

And just like that, the young man was struggling desperately not to cry. Peter pulled his hand back, not wanting to break him down in front of cameras and prison guards.

"Look at me. Without erasing anything I said earlier, you need to know that sending you back here is gonna be an absolute last resort. I'm gonna protect you from that with all I've got."

Neal met his eyes and smiled. Not his beaming con-artist smile, but a true, small smile of relief and affection.

"It would mean everything to me, just to be given the chance," said Neal softly. He hesitated. "Actually the fact that you're even talking to me means the world. I would never betray you, and if you send me back, I promise not to resent it. I'll come back quietly and hope that one day you'll need my help again."

Peter looked down at the hideous table. The words were touching, and sounded heartfelt. But it was wrenching to hear Neal Caffrey sounding so submissive. He knew this meeting had been painful for Neal, and Peter was suddenly afraid he'd actually cowed him.

It was the memory of that gentle hand holding his in the cell that gave him the key to understanding it. Neal would push back against anyone and anything controlling him against his will, and that included Peter. But Neal had no qualms about offering respect and cooperation and even soft vulnerability when they were offered on his own volition, not taken.

"I'll do my best to be a good friend to you, Neal."

Neal looked away to hide the emotions on his face. "You already have been."

Peter slipped a legal-size manila envelope across the table to Neal. "Read these," he said in a gentle voice, wishing Caffrey could come with him right now. "Show them to your lawyer. If you agree to the terms, sign them and send them in. With any luck, I'll be picking you and your shiny new anklet up outside the gates soon."

Neal closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"Okay, Neal. Be good, and I'll see you soon."


	11. Almost Home

**NEAL**

Neal got back to his cell with the paperwork and started going through it. He'd seen the drafts of other agreements, and they were boilerplate and unnerving. No worse than prison, but then no one individual ran his life in prison. Peter was probably the one single person in the world he'd dare allow to have that much power over him, and even with Peter it was a frightening concept.

He'd been intimidated by professionals, or at least they'd tried. But Peter Burke, with his compassionate eyes and gentle voice, had made the consequences of running sound untenable. And that gave Neal an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was easy to forget that Peter was good at his job. Really good. And he seemed to have an uncanny ability not just to catch Neal, but read and control him. A soft-spoken prison of Peter's creation might just be more secure than Sing Sing.

Then he saw _his_ release agreement, and started staring.

He had a _two mile_ radius in the heart of New York City?

He had no curfew, no lifestyle restrictions, no humiliating alcohol and drug monitoring. He could own smartphones and computers and associate with anyone he pleased. He could scrap about a hundred plans to conceal a phone and pass messages secretly to Mozzie.

Then he got to the searches and seizures section and his cheeks started burning. Peter could search his living quarters, and with reasonable cause, frisk. But conspicuously absent was any mention whatsoever of authority to strip search him. That provision was one of many completely deleted from the document.

_Great. So for no reason whatsoever, I had an excruciatingly awkward conversation with Peter Burke about getting me naked. Smooth, Caffrey. Really smooth._

Peter was letting him live like a human being. Even more moving, he hadn't forced Neal to earn it or used it to extract any promises. And he'd had to fight for it, submitting and revising and re-submitting papers for approval until this packet had grown almost an inch thick.

Neal set the papers aside and closed his eyes. Everything had just changed. Using his freedom to find Kate and gather his resources to flee for good had been the sole reason for doing this. He'd known that if Peter were to agree, it would be to advance his career and little more.

No, that wasn't exactly true. There had been the fantasy.

The one where they were friends and partners. The one where they trusted and cared about each other, and Neal got to work his dream job in law enforcement and have a true friend to laugh with and trust.

The one where maybe, the one smart, decent, and law-abiding person he knew who actually had any fun in life would show _him_ how to pull it off.

Neal longed for his starry-eyed image of Burke to be real. He'd been a fascinating opponent during the chase: relentless, cunning, but always ethical and even playful. He'd been a gentle and respectful captor. He'd provided true and caring comfort and support when Neal had needed it most, with no ulterior motive in sight. Peter's letters and postcards had been an anchor through a wrenching, devastating adjustment to prison.

That fantasy had been behind the genuine emotion he'd used - okay, felt -during Peter's visit. Promising not to run, not to betray him, to be a good and loyal little pet criminal. He'd promised those things to a make-believe, mythical Peter Burke who really was as wonderful as he acted. That fantasy was dear enough to him to incite real, powerful longing and emotion.

None the less, it was a broken fool's mission to wish fantasy into reality. Nobody was that good and ethical and safe. Neal was acutely aware that he didn't actually know Peter. He was probably a career-climbing bureaucrat, using Neal to his own ends. That he did it without brutality didn't change the fact that he was in the business of catching and punishing the Neal Caffreys of the world.

Neal had heard too many stories here. He was far from the only inmate with a kind arresting officer and a supportive, understanding interrogator. Nor the only one who'd been decimated in court by that very person. These guys who adored their case officers got tricked, lied to, betrayed, and thrown into prison as a reward for their affection and trust in someone who was only pretending to give a shit about them.

For all he knew, Burke was planning to use him to see if there were any crimes left within the statute of limitations that he could arrest Neal for. Neal was going to use this for _his_ own ends, and get out of town for good.

Or such had been the plan.

Peter had just handed him something extraordinary. He had deliberately given away most of the power and control he could have had over Neal. That wasn't a thing people did, turning down power. Not everyone abused it, but nobody signed it away.

Nobody but the fantasy Peter Burke. The person whose existence he hardly dared believe in.

This couldn't be repaid, punished, by coldly conning and running. This was everything good and decent and sincere.

He'd stay in the damn anklet. Until he found a way to get it off that didn't involve the earth caving in on him or hurting Peter.

He, Neal Caffrey, was going to work at the FBI. He was going to commit to it, and he was going to show Peter that a con artist was capable of honor and loyalty.

_Okay, Peter Burke, you caught me again. Please be for real._

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

Peter drew in a deep breath and kissed El. Last trip to the prison. "I keep having this hilarious little image in my head of driving to the pound and picking my new consultant up from the kennel. It's so wrong, I know. He's a person and he's sure as hell no pet. Still makes me chortle."

El's eyes sparkled and she pursed her lips in that adorable way she did when she was trying not to laugh. "Honey, don't be afraid to have a sense of humor. It's one of the things you like about him, right?"

"Yeah. Got a pretty sensitive streak too, though."

El caressed his cheek. "That's why he's lucky he met you. Now go have fun playing with your new pet con artist."

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, 'still in processing.' I've been waiting outside the gate for three hours," said Peter. "What are you doing, turning him into processed lunch meat?"<p>

The harried official gave him a well-oiled glare. "Come back tomorrow at 11:30 am."

Peter returned the glare and slammed his badge down on the counter. "I'm Special Agent Peter Burke. I'm here to take custody of a Confidential Informant who has skills critical to a major investigation. Run it up the ladder."

"Oh." The guy was eying Peter's FBI badge with misgiving. "My apologies, sir."

Peter waited twenty minutes, until Sergeant Larson entered the lobby and gave him a rueful grin. Peter stood and shook his hand. "You're becoming my favorite person to have deliver the news that I can't see Caffrey right now."

Larson chuckled. "You can see 'im if you like. You just can't take him home with you today."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Take him home with me? Has he morphed into a ten year old or a cocker spaniel while my back was turned?"

"Figure of speech. You'd have an easier time with the cocker spaniel, believe you me. He could sure use a few home-cooked meals to put some weight on his bones though..."

Peter had to chuckle. "You really do like him."

"He's brightened too many shitty days for me not to," said Larson. "You got no idea how many guys've asked me about 'that FBI agent that wants to adopt Caffrey.'"

"So what's holding up the adoption?" asked Peter, giving the guy an amused grin.

"There was an oversight, and he wasn't transferred into the processing center on time. You can have 'im tomorrow, and I'll take you back to say hello if you want."

Peter went through security, and once disarmed and divested of all objects sharp or shiny, met Sgt. Larson on the other side for the trek to wherever Caffrey was now.

"Any advice for me?" asked Peter as the first door closed behind them.

"You're gonna need the patience of a saint. People don't wind up in here because they're well-adjusted members of society who make smart choices and play nice with others. Stay on top of him, I swear he thinks up trouble to get into in his sleep. He doesn't get the basic fucking concept of a rule."

They were in a sally port somewhere in the complex waiting when Larson sighed and faced Peter.

"I got two kids. Adopted. One of 'em was abused, bad. Has scars you wouldn't believe. Other watched his parents get killed, older brother's in here, and that's it for him and family."

Peter grimaced. "Older?"

"Five and seven when I took 'em in. Inner city kids, both. Second one, Grady, I adopted after his brother Caden came in here on a life sentence for homicide. I got to know Caden, and he begged me to take Grady in. Grady's twelve now, Liam's ten. These're two of the toughest, most resilient little kids in the world, and the most scared."

Peter ran his hand down the barred door he was leaning against. Odd that he was becoming quite comfortable in a prison. "Caffrey's been trying to throw me outta here ever since he realized I might really do this."

Larson didn't look surprised. "Thing about these kids - why they tend to run through foster homes - is they never feel safe. They challenge me constantly, disobey, smash things, come right up an' hit me. They're looking for the one thing that'll make me snap an' beat the shit out of them or get rid of 'em, 'cause they'd rather provoke it on their own terms than get their hearts broken. The only time they feel safe is when they've pissed me right the hell off and I'm not hurting them for it."

"I think he's as afraid of what he'll do as he is of how I'll react," said Peter.

"For Caffrey? That's a realistic fear. He makes impulse decisions that're absolutely bonkers. He's got all the foresight of a brick hurling through a window. Good thing for him he's adorable, or he'd be dead by now."

"It's worth it?" asked Peter.

"Absolutely. To have those two kids come to trust me enough to fall asleep in my arms, and tell me their secrets, and start calling me dad? It's worth everything in the world."

* * *

><p>Neal was locked in a sterile white cell in a different building, a far quieter one. It was large, and held a table and chairs and a television. And a bizarre green plastic potted plant that looked like it had been designed by an alien who'd never seen foliage before. It was half prison cell, half waiting room.<p>

Neal beamed at him and waved him into one of the chairs. The table was covered with endless sheafs of paperwork, and Neal was in the middle of filling out forms. Lots of forms.

"Well, at least now we know you'll fit in well at the FBI," said Peter, gesturing to the pile.

Neal made a comical whimpering noise. "Please tell me you at least use a computer there."

"Yes. Several, in fact. Sometimes, you even get to fill out reports on paper and _then_ type them into the computer."

"Ahhh, freedom," muttered Neal with a dreamy expression. "They showed me the anklet today. The thing looks like a brick phone and a Fischer Price toy had a particularly passionate conjugal visit."

"I'm sorry it offends your delicate sense of fashion," said Peter. "By the way - I like those orange scrubs. Prada?"

"Those shoes you're wearing...Dr. Scholls for Juniors?" asked Neal.

"Say - I've been meaning to ask," said Peter, moving his leg sharply when it happened to brush that terrifying mutant plant. "They use designer handcuffs here, or just some cheap knockoff?"

"I didn't know you had a shrubbery phobia," countered Neal, sneaking his foot out and nudging the pot closer to Peter.

Peter smiled. Impending freedom suited the guy.

Caffrey was endearing in every way possible. Adorable, sweet-natured, romantic, spirited, funny, brilliant, refined, brave, goofy. Just small and young and vulnerable enough to trigger Peter's protective instincts.

If he wasn't a thief, a con artist, and a forger with a near-psychopathic lack of remorse, a pathological craving for attention and admiration, and the worst judgement on the planet, he'd be the perfect human being.

Peter stood up. "I should probably go. They tell me you'll be all neatly processed tomorrow morning. I just wanted to say hi since I was here."

**NEAL**

Neal braced himself, took a deep breath, and addressed the Peter Burke of his fantasies. "You know I'm trusting you with my life and my future."

Peter turned away from the door and walked back to the table. He regarded Neal for a minute, with affection and curiosity showing plainly in his soft brown eyes. His expression couldn't have been more pleasant and unguarded. "I promise not to betray that."

"Can I believe you?" asked Neal.

Peter gave him a wry little smile. "I think we're both smart enough to know human beings can be good liars. You'll just have to find out. You know _I'm_ trusting you with - my faith in people, and my career,."

"I promise not to betray _that_." Neal meant it, and pointed at the release agreement paperwork with a small shiver. "I read these."

"I should damn well hope so," said Peter. "Even though I wouldn't put it past you to just sign random paperwork for kicks if you were just that bored."

"I've never been so grateful -" said Neal. He hesitated for a moment, then stood, dove forward and hugged Peter. "You. Are. Awesome. Thank you. Thank you."

Peter patted him on the back, not in a halfhearted condescending sort of way but with steady, solid affection.

"Why?" asked Neal. "Why did you do that for me?"

Peter pushed him away and looked at him, his face sober. "Because you're gonna be in my world now. One where you do the right thing just because, and doing nice things for people isn't a tit-for-tat extortion scheme but normal human decency. I can't show you how my world works if I'm using the rules of yours."

"A world where people just give you things is a criminal's dream," said Neal. "And a very easy one to take advantage of."

Peter looked him directly in the eyes. "Neal, are you a criminal at heart?"

Neal's eyes stung, and he blinked. No. _No. I'm a guy who wanted to be a cop, and somewhere between my dad using his uniform to be a racketeer and a murderer, and having to hustle pool after school to get grocery money because my mom burned our house down and tried to kill herself, I stopped believing in this pretty little construct of nobility and the right thing._

"No. At heart, I'm - I'm you."

Peter's smile was reserved, but there was something in his eyes that conveyed deep warmth and validation. "Time to listen to your better heart, Neal."

"Okay."

_Damn it. He got me again._

There was something about how un-manipulative this guy was that made him capable of bending Neal any way he wanted. Peter was making Neal sincerely want to do this, and do it right.


	12. Must Wear Spiders to Dinner

"Neal?"

Neal was standing in the front of the surveillance van, frozen, staring out the windshield. He didn't even seem to be hearing Peter.

"Neal!"

Neal flinched, and he clasped his hands behind his back like he was waiting to be cuffed. Peter stood up and came closer to his CI, who refused to look at him.

Neal was trembling. A tiny, almost invisible quiver in his hands was all that gave it away. Peter stood in silence for a minute, and finally figured it out. The van held no small resemblance to a solitary confinement cell.

He wrapped his hands around Neal's wrists, held them for a few moments, then gently moved Neal's arms back down to his sides and let go. "Go for a walk outside. Call me if you want me."

Caffrey nodded once, turned, and went outside. He returned a half hour later with espresso for both of them, and they watched the monitors and chatted like nothing had happened. But within an hour Neal was breathing with the sort of careful control of a man concealing terror.

"Outside, Neal," said Peter in his softest voice. "You don't have to ask. Just go."

This time he followed after five minutes or so. Neal was within a hundred feet of the van, braced against the trunk of a tree. He turned away from Peter when the agent approached. He was holding himself with elegant precision, a casual stance and an easy slump to his shoulders. His face was a blank, but his eyes were dark and hiding tears that Peter saw anyway. His breathing was so controlled, and Neal was losing control so fast, that his breathing simply stopped for seconds at a time. This was a man trapped an inch from running for his life.

Peter didn't talk to him or touch him. Just knelt down, took out his pocketknife, and cut the anklet off. Put it in his pocket and walked back towards the van, calling the Marshal's office to override the alarm. Right now, to Neal, the van was a prison cell, the anklet was a prison cell, everything around him an intolerable form of control. This was a mental make or break moment for Neal. If Neal was allowed to run right now, literally and physically, allowed to sprint for the edge of his radius and beyond until his lungs burned and he lost the urge to scream, he'd probably come back. If not, he could be gone for good.

It took Neal two hours to return, and he was holding his coat, out of breath like he'd been running. He sat down and gave Peter a bright grin.

"Anklet?"

Peter had threaded a new strap through it already, while he tried to contain his fear that Neal might not return. He handed it over to let Neal put it on himself, but Neal's hands weren't cooperating with him and he fumbled it, then drew a deep breath.

"Would you like me to do it?" asked Peter.

Neal handed it to him instantly. Peter hesitated just before wrapping the strap around his CI's ankle. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Neal had always seemed to enjoy being touched, and be calmed by it. One of the traumas of solitary confinement was the absence of any physical contact. But Peter couldn't stop being dreadfully afraid Neal had been beaten or otherwise abused too. Larson hadn't exactly been subtle with his abused child analogy.

Neal nodded as rapidly as he'd handed the anklet over. It was as close to a _please do_ as could be accomplished without words. Peter put the anklet on carefully, checking and re-checking the tightness with Neal before crimping it down properly so it couldn't be removed without breaking the circuit. It wasn't something either of them were familiar with yet, but Neal seemed to welcome Peter's inept fiddling with it.

"Thanks for letting me run," said Neal. "Needed that."

Peter nodded. "Thanks for coming back."

Neal cast him an uneasy glance. "Others need to know about this?"

"Nope. But you'll have to keep working in the van."

Neal nodded. "Any movement from Calenti's gang?"

"The daughter left maybe ten minutes ago. No sight of Ivan yet."

Peter tossed him a bottle of water. They watched the monitors in silence while Neal caught his breath and gulped it down. Then he tossed the empty bottle at Peter's head.

Peter caught it as it bounced off and flung it back at Neal, who faked a yelp of pain when it struck his arm. They spent the next ten minutes assaulting each other with the empty bottle until Neal stood abruptly and walked out.

He returned fifteen minutes later with an almost smug look on his face. This was explained when Peter turned around to see a very convincing rubber snake draped across his coffee mug, its forked tongue snaking out in his direction. He startled, grabbed it, and gave it a menacing flex.

"Damn," muttered Peter. "Too short to strangle you with."

"There's a reason I didn't buy the twenty-four-inch one," said Neal with a grin. "Even if it did come with an attachable rattle and free spiders."

Peter tossed the thing up on top of the microwave. "We'll see how Jones and Diana feel about snakes."

Neal gave him a devious grin, and Peter experienced a tickle of unease. "Wait..._free_ spiders? Does that imply purchasable spiders?"

Neal shrugged. "I always did think you'd look awesome with spiders in your hair. I was right."

"NEAL!"

After Peter plucked six plastic spiders and a cotton web off his head, he took revenge by installing them on Neal. Who didn't resist in the slightest, just sat there with an absurdly happy smile on his face while Peter stuck spiders in his hair.

"You didn't steal these, did you?" asked Peter suspiciously.

Neal gave him an indignant look. "No. I paid for them. I know better than to drape my handler with _stolen_ spiders."

"Ah. Very good," said Peter. He tucked a final spider into Neal's hair, peeking out over his right ear. This was possibly the happiest, most content expression he'd ever seen on Neal's face. His head was tilted towards Peter for easy spidering, and his eyes were half-closed in amused bliss. Peter couldn't avoid smiling himself and giving Neal's shoulder an affectionate rub. Neal's eyes closed the rest of the way.

Peter had wanted to show him the joys of normal life, inside the law. Well, they'd just found one. He remembered the plastic bag he had stashed in the corner, and smiled. This was as good a time as any.

He pulled out a plush squirrel, to which he'd affixed stickers with little X marks across the eyes. "Your merit badge. You bagged Hagen, you get a dead squirrel to go with your tracking anklet."

Neal laughed and took a seated bow. He snatched the squirrel from Peter's hand with a playful grab, and then held it with a smile growing broader and broader as he looked at it. He lifted one of the stickers away with his fingernail. "You really do love squirrels. You couldn't even bear to do this with anything but a sticker."

Peter felt his cheeks go hot. The thing was, it was true. He'd planned for full-on faux tire tracks and red X marks stitched across the eyes, but he hadn't been able to do it. It seemed too morbid when he'd found such a soft, real-looking, adorable squirrel. Fake squirrel.

Neal finished peeling the stickers off with a careful touch and fond smile, then put the squirrel on his shoulder nestled against the crook of his neck. "Can I wear him to work?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, you already are," said Peter dryly.

"Oh. Right." Neal blinked, and tucked the side of his chin into the fur. "This doesn't feel like work. And I love my merit badge."

This was quite possibly the happiest he'd ever seen Neal. And the softest, the most able to trust and reveal the unreserved sweetness that he protected so carefully.

Peter felt a protective heartache. Neal with the spiders in his hair. Neal who fought him constantly until he was scared, winding them both into a ball of anger and tension almost impossible to defuse. Neal who seemed to love being touched, to be reassured and comforted by physical contact above all else.

This separation of Neal from his home life wasn't working very well. He'd already endured Neal on his couch, kissing his dog, arranging faux-tropical vacations for him and El, and putting spiders in his hair. If Neal had to pick one of Peter's pre-release decrees to break out of sheer defiance, he'd chosen the right one. Peter knew when to concede defeat.

"After I was in your cell that night - I went home and had dinner with El, and I just wished you could be there with us. Will you come have dinner with me and El tonight?"

Neal gave him an almost timid glance. "Yes?"

"One catch, we have a strict dress code," warned Peter. "All convicted felons must wear spiders to dinner."

Neal grinned. "I can deal with that."

His face went serious, and he glanced at Peter again. "There needs to be a more heartfelt word for thank you."

Peter squeezed his arm. "Just keep coming to work."

* * *

><p><strong>Epologue<strong>

Peter didn't make a habit of searching Neal's apartment, despite the release agreement that allowed him to. A little snooping here and there on the other hand...if he happened to open a door and look inside a box...

He pulled out one of many cards, and recognized it. It was from him, one of the 365 he'd sent Neal as promised. They hadn't been in his cell when Peter searched it after the escape, and Peter assumed Neal hadn't kept them. Instead, he must have somehow gotten them into safe keeping before his escape.

Peter thumbed through. They were all there, every last one, arranged by date postmarked. And slipped along the side, his initial letter. Carefully folded, but worn like it had been held and read and carried many, many times.

Cherished.

Peter tried to gulp away the lump in his throat, and his eyes...watered. Yes, that was it.

He replaced the box carefully and sat down at the table.

Neal.

Every time he started thinking he was a sucker for caring about this guy...

Oh, damn it Neal. You sweetheart.


End file.
